


The Golden Orchard

by moon_opals



Series: Hearth & Home [3]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disney Afternoon references, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Drama, Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Unconventional Families, grandma goldie, grandpa scrooge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Gold transforms beauty into disgust, hate into love. Goldie knows love and hate are two sides of the same coin, that disgust is just beauty in disguise, and so, she asks very little in return.It isn't a surprise when a figure from her past comes to collect payment--"I'm sorry," they murmured to ear. "I'm sorry."She forgives them before the trigger is pulled.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reas_of_sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reas_of_sunshine/gifts), [thehousethatfloats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousethatfloats/gifts), [neopuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neopuff/gifts), [ScoutsDesk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutsDesk/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct sequel to "Nothing Gold Can Stay." This story works as a stand alone, but some NGCS plot points will make an appearance in this story. This isn't just promotion for you to read my other story, but I'd appreciate it if you do.

Tranquility flourished in the farmlands. Deer grazed. Dragonflies zoomed past half-bloomed flowers. Rabbits appeared, disappeared, and reappeared, twitchy noses detecting approaching predators. This solitude was deserving of protection. It requested respect. Disturbing its silence and the comfort of its inhabitants was borderline sacrilegious.

"Damn it," Goldie swore in aggravation.

The middle summer months were hotter than hot, and she wasn’t spending it on Praia Vermelha, as she planned this year. She grunted with each step, dragging the suitcase through grass and dirt. She made it to her jeep and popped the trunk. Another was heard a short distance away. She guessed may three or five feet away. She didn't bother turning in its direction, and tossed the thing inside. Metal struck the carpet with a loud thud.

“Careful will ya’,” a reprimand sounded over her shoulder. “That thing breaks, and it’s coming out of our pay.”

She gripped the trunk top and slammed it shut. The sound echoed to the trees, forcing a group of blackbirds to flight. They were like ants treading over clouds. Her partner groaned aloud, crossing his arms as he whipped out his phone.

“Truth is, kid,” she started with moderate condescension, “I doubt a plane crash could crack the Corvo’s Padparadscha.” Impatient to depart, she found the keys as he dialed their employer, holding a tight glare as they slid into the passenger’s seat. The jeep sat on an old, beaten dirt road, one that led out of the wood and deeper into the farmlands. She started the engine and sped off, not once looking back at the thick conglomeration of wood and pine.

He spoke animatedly to their employer. "Yes, yes, sir," he tucked the phone beneath a single, floppy ear. "I understand this is incredibly important, and yes, we did place the gem in an indestructible, enchanted quadriamond containment unit, just as you specified.”

“A suitcase would've done the trick."

"Shut up," he roared, startling her and him. He immediately lost all color, and frantically returned to the phone. "No, no, sir," the phone hopped in his grasp, and he returned it safely, swallowing deeply. “Not you, sir. Of course, _no_ , I was speaking to my partner.” His black fur paled, “Oh, yes,” his mouth twisted in confusion. He glanced at Goldie warily. Doubt and fear aged him prematurely, but he offered the phone, “He wants to speak to you.”

“Put him on speaker,” Goldie kept to the road, more than ready to leave the thicket she’d driven them to. Her passenger hesitated. His grasp trembled around the device, and she shook her head. Her loose ponytail threatened to unravel. “Oh come on,” she poked. “It isn’t like he’s going to pop out of the screen.”

Her laughter roared to his attention, reaching its peak when she noticed the sound traveled to his ears. His fur rivaled ink, but the bright sheen had drained, leaving a pale blanket in its place. 

“He heard you,” he said, quietly. “I’m positive he heard you.”

“Oswald,” Goldie chuckled. “The first thing you need to learn about men like him is that for you to win the game, you never let them see you sweat.” She plucked the phone free, and without taking her eyes off the road, she pressed the speaker button. All the rage and impatience absconded in the jeep.

“You’re a miserable miscreant,” there was something endearing about the way he pronounced miserable. Goldie noticed he rolled his r’s while putting emphasis on his e’s. “I can’t believe I trusted you with this mission! Do you have any idea how much this will cost us?”

“You were always the one for dramatics, McDuck,” the road curved in the middle, and she turned the wheel just so. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.” Her hand fled to her pocket where the object waited, nestled next to another, and she thumbed it gingerly, raising it for the sun’s view. Oswald’s stare widened in horror, and he shook his head frantically, crossing his arms in an ‘X’ to signify she wasn’t meant to say anything more.

Had she not been Goldie O’Gilt, she might've adhered to this silent warning, or at least contemplated the consequences a little bit longer than her usual 0.34 seconds. But she was who she was. She shrugged helplessly, and let him heave his curses and swears.

“Ack, a terrible thing it is when I rely on an O'Gilt for help,” he shouted. “But I know you’ve got the stone locked tight and safe. If anyone knew what we’d done -,”

“Yeah, yeah,” an orangish red reflected in her eye. Its glow was like fire, a small yet powerful flame fighting underneath the sun’s mighty glare. An unsuitable comparison, she knew, but the danger they faced and escaped was wroth it, she believed. The dark wood hadn't swallowed them. She rotated the beauty above her head, “Have you ever faced a fairy’s wrath?”

Her question was dipped in sarcasm. They knew the truth. The fairies chased them near and far, and they clamored above swollen roots, as bulbous varicose veins. Goldie laughed at their familiar rage, having evaded its full effect on several occasions. The line’s silence was deafening. He gathered his tongue in sputtered seconds, and she felt his shame at his unusual loss of words.

“As you know the answer to that,” he replied, bitterly, “you should be glad I referred to you for this request.” But he was a wise man, and said nothing more, instructing them to reach their destination with minimum destruction. “You’ll give me the sapphire, and you’ll receive the rest of your payment.”

“The rest of our payment,” she chuckled, amused he believed this was going to be as simple as that. Oswald tucked his fingers under his chin, staring through the window. “I’m not worried you won’t keep your side of the bargain, honey.”

“We know better,” he replied, icily. “Oswald.”

He jumped at the sound of his name called in such a scathing tone. “Yes,” he swallowed, swinging his body towards Goldie, “I’m here.”

“I understand this may be a difficult undertaking, but make sure she doesn’t run off with The Devil’s Padparadscha.”

She snorted, “He can try.” There wasn’t more to be said, and she ignored Oswald’s tired stare, exasperated and yearning for home.

“Goldie -,” she pressed the end button and tossed the phone to her partner.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Oswald sighed. “He pays what he owes. He’s a good guy.”

“I’ve met better men.”

His brow arched curiously, silently asking for her to elaborate, but she didn’t take the bait. She stared ahead, noticing the thinning trees on the sides. She was able to see distant farms and their beasts grazing through the grass, a sign their path approached its end. She wasn’t in a hurry, though it was understandable if she was. Oswald didn’t stop glancing over his shoulder, waiting for the moment when a seething stream of multicolored light propelled after them.

“They’re not coming, Oswald,” she said. “They knew what we wanted, and they were ready to give it up.”

“But why?”

Goldie’s smirk resonated with sharp wit. “They’re fairies,” she said in a tone that suggested the answer was sufficient in describing their nature. “We aren’t supposed to understand their intentions. They play tricks, some cruel, some nice, and who knows what else. Maybe they got bored.” Oswald’s lips twisted in a half-snarl, half-frown. His distrust at her simple response was apparent, but he kept his silence, staring out window where trees cut to a skyscraper’s middle. This calmed him.

This was acceptable. This was better than his constant reprimands and agitated snaps, almost like a fidgety child at the doctor's office. And she hadn't had to do that in over thirty years. Scrooge had taken on that role and was great at it. But Oswald didn't possess the same bite her past partners did. Goldie could work with it. They were professionals, and as professionals, these past partners gnawed on her mocking gestures before spitting their comebacks that left her winded and awed. Occasionally, catching her off guard was an effortless attempt, especially for him. She glanced at Oswald, the rabbit who did not know her and was afraid to know her. 

Her name and reputation traveled far. It'd be foolish to keep an open space; a barrier was what he needed, for protection, even though it wasn't necessary. Or more precisely, that it was too late. His parents. His siblings. His seven children and their mothers. He was under the impression that his personal history was tucked safely under lock and key. As long as he kept quiet on such matters she'd never know, but she was smarter than he knew, which was what he failed to realize. Goldie had no intention of depriving him of this delusion. Her better half permitted this pathetic indulgence. 

She returned to his question instead. Fairies were vindictive creatures; dangerous, mischievous. Right. Wrong. Good. Evil. Morality was nothing to the fae, identified as a minor inconvenience they avoided at all costs. Goldie knew for every possible reason mortals drafted, the fae tossed their sensibilities in mud, chuckling at their narrow-minded thinking.

Their actions were centered on the notion of satisfying their pleasures. It was no more complicated than that. Goldie’s smirk weathered, and she she gripped the wheel tighter than usual, riding the last curve as doubt began to fester.

She entered the fairy’s inner sanctum beneath the Circle of Birch and swiped the sapphire in an unprotected room. Fairies were neither cautious or protective, making their lack of guards expectedly welcome, but as she passed the threshold separating the wild from domesticity, her certainty faltered. Their world perspective was broad and narrow, a combination of flippant desires and lax societal restrictions.

But as she drove, she speculated their absent anger. Their unusual response to their entry wasn't instantly alarming, which led to more doubt surrounding their pursuit. Why had they chased them, with enough anger to set trees on fire, if they hadn't truly felt it? Was it a part of a game? To tease their relief? Goldie didn't have an answer for that or their feelings regarding the sapphire. It was wasted breath asking for her employer's reasons, and she assumed his reasons fell in line with most insanely rich entrepreneurs. She made sure to mention how disappointing he was as a person for it. 

Within her disappointment was nervousness surrounding their reason for allowing the gem's departure without much of a fight. Her escape didn't satisfy her cravings as they usually did. She didn't outwit immortal demons of the sky. She didn't battle the fae, conspiring to turn them against each other. Their lax protection and feeble pursuit was an offer laid out and bare. It was something they either wanted gone or was torn on parting with. 

Her stomach clutched. A foreboding sense prickled her feathers, and as their distance from the wood stretched further, she realized it hadn’t cooled. She glanced at the rearview mirror, adjusting for a better viewing, and realized her stomach was right. There was no need to panic, as no one pursued them. Whatever that stood at the edge of the wood waved a lonesome hand while eyes fluttered like stars among the trees, all watching the Jeep make its escape.

Goldie tilted her head. _They’re mocking us,_ their gleam cut through her memory. Her silent accusation slid up her throat, and she swallowed, prepared to turn for their glares when a shout cut her attempt right down the middle. 

“Goldie, ahead,” Oswald scratched his claws onto the dashboard. His opaque stare widened to miniature lunar eclipses, and he reeled back, bracing for impact.

But Goldie was quick. She averted back to the road and drowned a gasp in her throat. Something, arguably a person, stood in the middle of the road. She put her foot on the brake, pressure so hard that the strain squealed. Tires funneled in the road, creating miniature troughs, and dust surrounded them as the jeep lurched forward on that last roll. Their chests were at the mercy of their seatbelts, digging through cloth fabric.

Her forehead was on the wheel, fingers still clasped on an iron hold. She panted, unable to form coherent thought in the moment. She raised her head slowly, vision somewhat circling, and saw Oswald holding both sides of his seat, expression stiff. She’d been startled. She knew it was true. Oswald was petrified, bottom lip sucked in, ears wrapped around his head, covering the upper half of his head.

“You sir,” she mumbled, shifting the gears into park, “Are no Bugs Bunny.” This wasn’t the time to lament her partner’s shortcomings. With a sigh, she straightened in the seat and studied the creature that nearly killed her.

Goldie sucked in a sharp breath and unbuckled her seatbelt. She didn’t know what she was going to say to that haunted figure three feet from the Jeep’s ornament, gazing at them in a neutral fashion. She slammed the door and approached the creature wearing a summer hat that obscured their face, creating a crescent shaped eclipse over their eyes.

She readied an unforgiving retort. Her fists were clenched, and had she possessed fingernails, she would’ve cut through the skin. Her nostrils flared, and she marched to the imposing figure adorned in black, melding with the shade as it was one of them. Summer winds giggled and pushed circled their opaque skirts, slim and transparent. She saw thin legs and black heeled boots.

“Are you a reptile,” Goldie scrutinized. She cocked her head back, tongue stuck at the top of her mouth. She hadn’t used that in over a decade, and she didn’t like hearing it.

This was the offering. A chance for the person to offer an explanation, friend or foe or fae. Their deliberate obscurity confused its victims with comforting discontent. Their quietness annoyed Goldie, raising multiple alarms in her head, but none of these alarms rang with their usual intensity. Another reason, deeper and well hidden, had subdued her senses, shelving precaution and self preservation.

She barked angrily. She reached into her back pocket, preparing to make the first move. The person recognized this defensive tactic without turning their head, which Goldie assumed but had no proof of, and raised their pale arm to straighten their summer hat that had been shifted by the wind.

This seemingly innocent maneuver failed to disarm her. Muscles and mind braced, Goldie was alerted to the danger they'd fallen in. She cocked a grin and wondered what a mildly corrected summer was going to do to them. But then, her arrogance was muted. For the straightener summer hat had successfully removed the stark eclipse shrouding their eyes, and Goldie became lopsided. She removed her hand from her pocket, lowered her fist, and stepped forward.

What she saw, she believed an illusion, or a fairy induced hallucinations intended to reshape her desires into a partial corporeal state.

“No, Goldie,” they replied in a calm, smooth tone. “I am here, and I am real.”

Goldie trembled, suddenly cold in summer’s warmth, but she refused to back down. She closed thee distance and stood three inches to their front. Her arms were outstretched, almost to embrace them but afraid to touch them in the scenario this was some ill formed dream.

“I am here,” they repeated, and their pale touch cupped Goldie’s cheek. “I am sorry.”

Against her better judgment, Goldie eased into their palm and clasped it. Her eyes burned. “Tell me what happened,” she said, then swallowed. “We can fix it. We can fix it, just...please, my -,”

It was sharp and explosive, and was a pain unlike any other. Once sufficed, and she knew when the gun’s barrel struck her abdomen. Goldie fell, an unusual sensation to subscribe to as every nerve ending residing in her flesh was ignited. But she didn’t hit the ground. An arm caught and steadied her. Like a sickly child, Goldie was put to rest in front the jeep.

“For this, there's no compensation,” she clasped Goldie's hand that reached for her black blouse. The foggy glaze in her stare withheld all thoughts. "I'm sorry."

They reluctantly pulled away, beginning their backward path on the road. Again and again, until they became one with the air. Out of sight, but close to mind, the figure began to fade. Clear shadows clung to them, waving melancholy as they slipped into nothingness.

But a certainty unlike Goldie had ever known commanded her consciousness to remain alert, despite her agony pleading for sleep’s merciful palm.

Sleep abandoned her. Her motor skills toppled, and she was left in Oswald’s care, dragged across dirt as he strapped her in. She discovered there was a restriction to how much pain nerve receptors were capable of receiving.

“You’re going to be okay,” she heard him say, inhaling sharply as he put the car in drive. “You’re going to be okay.”

Goldie's beak parted to snap, but she closed it tightly, turning her head aside. Agony engulfed her senses. Nothing could come in; nothing could exit.

Pain stunted her cognitive abilities, and Oswald's reassurances bled black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ships and characters will increase as the story progresses, so they're not going to appear in the tags until the time comes. Here's a start to a new chapter in Scrooge and Goldie family hijinks. Hopefully, everyone will survive.


	2. Chapter 2

Scrooge’s cane rapped on the freshly waxed floor. He detected the air's sweet honey lemon scent, a soothing aroma to steady the nerves. He scowled.

His nerves were not to be steadied. Or calmed. Or eased. An irascible mood darkened his scowl and forced his top hat near his forehead, a stark imitation to his knitted brow. Men and women flinched above and stepped aside to avoid his cane's sharp tip. He mumbled his discontent, glare skirting in all direction, and his glower glowed its darkest shine the moment the elevators opened.

He didn't know the people in the elevator. He knew they were under his employment; there wasn't any other reason for them to be inside his bin. He said nothing when he walked in, preferring his silence. He pressed the floor button he needed to visit and began his assumptions. The bunch huddled inside wearing strained smiles and sweaty brows were a project manager, three accountants, an archivist in training, an assistant, and a single graphic designer. He didn't wonder how he knew. He simply did, and that was what mattered. They were educated, capable men and women and other, but with him standing to their front, they were worse than petrified deer on the highway road. 

A sensible employee would've moved at this point. They sensed his discontent. In fact, his entire aura was a deep, murky green that stank of irritability and cutting remarks. None moved. Their sensible nature and steady nerves fled the second he appeared in their line of sight. Usually, Scrooge would've felt shame for this had he any to spare. But to their relief, he lacked the energy to rage at their palpable incompetence.

As the doors began to meet, he struck out a hand, stopping it. Wrinkles climbed on top of wrinkles. His back hunched. He didn't return to look at any of his employees. "Move," he commanded in an unnaturally cold tone. This was enough. His quiet growl was a roar that coerced them into movement; in multiple directions they fled, wherever their services were required. They'd use the stairs, or wait for the elevator to make its trip back. He watched and listened as their heels clattered on his waxed floor. Like the Red Sea, they parted, and at last, the was alone. And for the moment, at peace. He exhaled, chest relaxing in a fit of poorly controlled frustration. 

He wasn't alone. He wasn't surprised or pleased. The woman made no move to greet him, or to acknowledge his presence. Of the seven people that had recently entered the elevator, she was the most flippant, and confident. Small earbuds plugged hear ears. It took a single glance to know her attention was on her phone. 

"She cut his harebrained schemes," she slid her thumb down the screen. "I debugged every corner in this place and deactivated his robotic sharks," she pointed to her head, "lasers included."

Scrooge inhaled. He'd roll his eyes if he didn't fear they'd stick at the top. They'd have to roll so far. "I doubt you'd accept a thank you for payment," he replied. "Is Owlson paying you well?"

There it was, the smile. The smile he'd known for over a hundred years, but on a younger, kinder face. He wasn't positive she was actually smiling. He always suspected it was an unconscious trick of the eye, subtle and steady. He took it as a good sign.

"Pays better than you," she joked, though they knew she wasn't. Not completely. "The capitalist agenda continues to amaze." Her beak corners quaked. Now, this was a smile. A true, sardonic smile, the sort of smile that irritated and intrigued. It told no lies, but no truths either. Scrooge huffed, looking aside. Habitual comments like these were the bane of his existence, but ones he'd steeled against. He refused her bait.

“It hasn’t stopped you from working,” he replied, evenly. He tapped his cane softly. “And from what I’ve heard, you're a favorite.”

"Favorite is too strong," she paused, staring ahead. "Zan likes me, and when you through the muck that matters the most. But I'm not everyone's favorite, and that's okay."

“Flinty hates you.”

“He loathes me,” the enigmatic quality in her laugh baffled him. She sounded far away, yet so close. Familiar yet entirely separate from what he knew. His stomach didn't slip in knots. He didn't get that full or bloated sensation. But then she faced him, and like always, that vivid emerald, now mixed in calm rivers, held him still. This touch requested subtly, a silent request he was unable to satisfy, and they both knew it, though she was the only one who truly knew.

Scrooge swallowed and motioned to the number pad. “We'll need to get on the third floor for the meeting.” She pressed the third button and chuckled the moment the yellow light burned the oversized button.

“I always did love pressing buttons,” she slipped her phone in her pocket. “Enough formalities, how are you? How's the family?”

Scrooge scoffed. The tension in his shoulders melted. The transition to a less intense, controlled state was easier than either understood, but there was no use in studying what didn’t require study. He grinned, softly, and she chuckled, quietly.

“They are doing well,” he said. “The kids are as active as ever.”

“As active as you?”

“Close,” he replied. He pinched his fingers for emphasis, “Very close, but who knows what the future holds.”

She clicked her tongue and made a teasing expression that didn’t offend. Scrooge’s grin broadened into a smile. She bumped his shoulder, and her black hair tickled his whiskers.

“Look at you,” she bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like a proud poppa duck,” the proximity tickled his whiskers. Her dark hair sheen glowed. “You were meant for this.”

“Ack, Donald would have word with you.”

“Oh, that’s just the hurt talking.”

"Debatable."  
  
"Oh, that's not a debate," she insisted. 

Scrooge waited, and offered, “And what about -,”

"Debatable," she determined. "A hard debate, if I might add. " Her firm tone didn't sour their conversation. This was more than they'd discussed in years. "I'm assuming you're happy they're home."

Happiness was a weak choice of words, in his opinion. He didn't intend to admit this aloud to her or anyone else, but his genuine smile revealed his heart all the same. 

 “Yes,” he confessed, laughing at his sentimentality, “I am.” His stomach was light. His heart was warm. He’d missed this feeling, and for ten years had grown attached to cold solitary. It was a lifestyle change he accepted begrudgingly. He was stubborn when they arrived, afraid at opening his heart (and soul) again, but McDuck blood ran through their veins. It was only a matter of time before he caved.

“See,” she exhaled. “Domesticity suits you.”

“Ah, you heard about that.”

“She told me everything,” she rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately.”

His cheeks burned scarlet. He raised a fist to cough into, looking askance as seconds passed. “She shouldn’t have,” he coughed. “I’ve told her about discussing our adventures with children.”

Her eyes bulged briefly at his comment. “I’m far from a child, Scrooge,” she chortled. She patted her chest as her laughter and coughs eased, “And in her defense, she was drunk.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“It shouldn't.” She’d lived many years, and a part of them were in Goldie’s home. She paused to gather her breath, smirking still, and cocked her head to the side. “Near the golden lagoon? You shouldn’t have asked about the eyelashes.”

“Enough,” he snapped, mildly. “It was...it was…,” he shook his head, remembering his place and the person he spoke to. “I don’t have to tell you anything, and I’ll tell her something about telling you!”

Amusement quirked at the corners of her beak, but she made no response. She crossed her arms behind her back and glanced above at the line of numbers. They were on the second floor. Their meeting would start in less than three minutes.

“And how are they,” she changed the topic effortlessly. “I’m talking about the boys.”

“Donald is out with the kids on some field trip,” he shrugged. “I believe they’re going to visit Scarpa Museum downtown.”

“Scarpa?”

“Yes,” he answered, warily.

She brightened unexpectedly. The subtle hardness near her eyes softened, and she patted his shoulder. A single movement disarmed him. “My Dickie is there with her class,” she explained. “It’s a partnership with The Littlest Chickadees and Junior Woodchucks.”

“Her class?” He shifted closer with his eyes trainer above on the floor keypad, “Last I heard she’d been fired from the Rockerduck National Bank. Twice.”

Most parents would flush with shame and embarrassment. She did neither. Smirking at him with a mother's confidence, she winked. “She’s a mess,” she said, without an inch of disappointment. “But she's an O'Gilt. She’s trying to find the answers, and you have to admire her tenacity. She gets back up every time.”

“Every time?”

“Except when she had classes,” she chuckled. “She was always more of an adventurer than a scholar.”

Scrooge sniffed, realizing he'd cornered himself in an uncomfortable position he hadn't been in in over twenty years. He wanted to ask more questions, but was aware of the danger in prying too close to the truth. Their amicable atmosphere was necessary before a meeting with Flintheart Glomgold.

She laughed to herself, and this was enough to tell him she knew what he didn’t want to intend. “My sister is on a job right now,” she teased. “Haven’t heard from her in a few days, which is normal. Should be arriving soon if everything goes well.”

Scrooge huffed, more annoyed at her easy reading of his character than her explanation. “You think it’s ever easy with Goldie O’Gilt,” he tapped his cane on the floor.

“It’s always easy for her,” she retorted kindly. “But easy for the people she’s stealing from?” She shook her head and sighed, “I tell her one of these days it’s going to catch up to her, but you know Goldie.”

At that, they laughed.

“She does what she wants.”

But not without some derision.

The elevator stopped, and the bright yellow glow reflected on the third floor button. They stepped out together, seeing the pair of closed doors ahead. Nearby was the velvet, glass case of Scrooge’s number one dime. Glomgold’s shouts were muffled under Zan’s quiet warnings behind the doors.

“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” she mumbled.

“I can’t believe it either.”

As her position indicated, she opened the door and gestured for him to pass. He tipped his hat. She smirked, nodding solemnly to fit their new environment. Her attention swayed and fell to her pocket where her phone vibrated.

“Oriane?” Zan asked, “Will you be joining us?”

Her back to the door, she hesitated for the briefest of moments. No was her immediate response, and it dangled at the edge of her beak, ready for fire.

“It’s probably Dickie,” her worries recoiled. She was at work, and so was her daughter. She moved her hand to her pocket, discreetly pressing the side button on the phone side. The vibrations stifled instantly, dead. “The entirety of the bin has been cleared of all harebrained schemes, Ms. Owlson,” she sent a pointed stare at Flintheart Glomgold, “and to ensure the credibility of this meeting I will remain.”

“But you’re not needed,” Glomgold interjected loudly. “I don’t know why she,” he sneered at his partner and CEO, “invited you here. Because if anyone can sit quietly it’s Flintheart Glomgold.”

Scrooge pinched the skin between his eyes, “Then why are you the loudest one in the room?”

“Because I’m Flintheart Glomgold.” He stood in his chair and stomped one foot on the table, “And I’m the loudest, quietest person in the world!”

Zan’s relieved smile morphed into something less enthusiastic and more resigned, with a tight string stretching it wide. She motioned for Oriane to close the door, which she did quietly, and crossed her grasp on top of a stack of documents, waiting for binding signatures to complete them.

“I am the richest duck in the world,” Glomgold reached and tossed a large paper clip across the table. “And you’re just a pretender hiding away in his fancy mansion, constantly referring to himself in third person!”

“You’re talking about yourself, minus the richest duck in the world part,” Scrooge dodged the paper clip, then the tape dispenser. His head swung where the dispenser cracked against the wall. He gasped, pointing his cane as if it were a sharpened sword.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he growled. “That cost me $4.52, tax not included.”

“Actually, it was mine,” Zan said, and she glared at Glomgold, saying what was necessary without opening her mouth.

It appeared to work. As ready as he was to bludgeon his longtime rival with his cane, Scrooge cowed above the younger businesswoman’s glare. Like Glomgold, he sulked back onto his chair, arms crossed, and scowl crusted into an uncomfortable semi-pout.

“Good,” she huffed with some satisfaction. She glanced at her papers and cleared her throat, “Now, let us begin.”

* * *

The last time Donald visited the museum the kids were four and seven.

He spent an hour and half chasing a pair of four year olds who succeeded in climbing under the protective barrier. He caught them at the perfect moment. They were inches from destroying a respected t-Rex exhibit. But his relief was short lived.

The third four year old wanted to scale the Mount Neverest exhibit, and the seven year old decided the best way to help was pursue him up the wall. With two triplets strapped to his front and back, he tore into the celebratory banner, swinging from ceiling to mountain reenactment right as Dewey lost his grip, though she caught him at the last second by the cuff of his collar.

They didn’t return.

Fortunately, Donald doubted the kids remembered their last visit to the museum in detail. He wanted them not to remember. But he wasn’t filled with dread when he stepped through the Scarpa International Museum, paying $18.75 fee at the entrance desk.

His kids’ behavior wasn’t a concern today, though he hoped no one remembered their faces or recognized his voice. He’d done a lot of yelling that day. But his unease waned as time slipped on, with none the wiser. Adults focused on the children, and the children, in turn, focused on each other. Their combined whispers came together in a rumble that glided along the walls. Childhood memories recalled the Junior Woodchucks uniform. Theirs weren’t the only ones. The Littlest Chickadees were fancier and intricate, not the plain and simple fashion of the Junior Woodchucks.

They passed what appeared to be a mother and child. She kneeled on the phone, correcting her daughter’s light blue beret. Donald wasn’t positive he saw what he thought he saw, a mild twinkle on the girl’s cuff and wrung stitched around her beret.

“Is that little girl wearing diamonds,” he asked.

Huey slipped his hand into his, “Probably.” He smiled, “But that isn’t uncommon.”

“What do you mean?”

He readied to speak when another beat him to it. “It isn’t uncommon for wealthier families to induct their daughters or sons into The Littlest Chickadees,” she said, head tilted towards her phone screen. “That kid is one of many upper middle class children relying on the prestige of The Littlest Chickadees.”

“Hey,” Huey pouted. “I was going to say that.”

Ofelia smirked and patted his back. “Sorry buddy,” she pointed to her plain medium blue beret, “couldn’t help myself.”

Donald smiled. His oldest niece and nephew, the latter only by a few seconds, walked side by side. This wasn’t their first educational event in their respective tribes; they had attended the Chickadee - Woodchuck Convention last year and planned to do the same this year. Their small group walked to the back of the main museum hall where the audience gathered in front of a stage. A slender, wolfish woman tested a microphone and smiled, counting the number of parents and children in attendance.

“It’s our great honor to have you here today,” her smooth, cool tone quieted their rancor. “Chickadees, Woodchucks, students of Eldritch Academy, thank you for participating in this educational venue.”

She continued on the worth of the children present and their desired futures, that the school’s long standing partnerships with both organizations had benefited more children than they knew, from various cultural and economical backgrounds. Her voice was a sedative. Donald found his head nodding forward and eyelids drooping. So soft, so quiet, despite the booming projection.

“Wow, Miss Wolfsbane really knows how to draw in a crowd.”

The close proximity was what snapped his eyes open. He turned towards the voice that challenged the microphone’s volume and saw a young woman, probably no older than twenty three standing beside him. She wore ear plugs and paid more attention to her phone than Miss Wolfsbane.

Donald frowned, but said nothing. She wasn’t doing any harm.

But he hadn’t thought that she might’ve looked up, sensing his stare, and with that, she smiled, lowering her phone’s volume.

“Hey Ofelia,” she pulled one ear plug out. “This must be your family!”

Ofelia’s thick mass of curls bounced as she faced the young woman, and beneath her red feathers, lied a discreet blush.

“Uh...hey, Ms. Con Vit.” She motioned to Huey and Donald, “This is my Uncle Donald And little brother, Huey.”

In the middle, Donald glanced up and down. “Isn’t she a little young to be a teacher?”

Ofelia groaned, embarrassed. Ms. Con Vit laughed, “You sound like my Gigi. Why waste youth on education when you could be traveling the world and turning up in demonic dimensions?”

“Turning up?”

“Demonic dimensions?”

“Yeah,” she throat chuckled. “But if it helps, I’m only a teacher’s aide.” She stepped back pointed to the side, “Ms. Pato is the teacher I work under.”

He comb through the thicket of blue and red with some difficulty, unable to spot the teacher she referred to. He saw pink bows stuffed in blue berets beside red and white. He squinted, stepping forward without thinking. For some reason, a familiar bell rang in his head.

“Wait,” he thought. “It can’t be.”

It could and was. The color drained from his feathers, and his beak twisted in an unsure frown. But as he came to terms with this revelation, a shout trickled within the crowd. It spread like wild fire. One shout was joined with two, two became four, and soon, they multiplied with such speed their terror rang clear in their ears.

“What’s going on,” Ofelia asked.

“I don’t know.” Huey got on his knees, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horror the people evaded.

Men, women, and children scattered in various directions, making a quick run towards the nearest exit. Among shoes and feet, he spotted an unusual pair that flopped aimlessly, but a sharp tug on his collar dragged him away.

Donald led them in the opposite direction. A stampede of terrified people ran towards the main entrance, and there was no way for them to beat their speed. He dragged them to a corner, clutching them close to his body as the ground shook beneath their feet.

“We need to do something,” Ofelia said, voice muffled with Donald pressing her face down his chest.

“We need to know what we’re dealing with first,” Huey gasped, moving his head from Donald’s wing that had clamped awkwardly on top of it. “Assess the danger.”

It was impossible to assess the danger where they were. The stampede hadn’t lessened. Troop leaders, teachers, and security alike did their best to calm their attendants, but it did no good. They were tossed aside like spare change. The ones quick enough to dodge moved along the walls and hide in exhibits further down.

“I can’t believe of all the places,” Ms. Con Vit gritted her teeth.

Donald guessed he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Ms. Con Vit moved faster than expected and was bunched at their side, glaring ahead. She had locked on something in the lessening crowd. While Ofelia and Huey discussed their options, he followed her invisible trail.

Hard as it was, Donald spotted the thing that had caught her attention. Blacker than ink and wearing a dark blue blazer and pants, his ears flopped helplessly as he tried to maneuver an exit.

“Oswald,” Ms. Con Vit inhaled. “What did she get into now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is like a hurricane...
> 
> And it's going to get worse.
> 
> Ofelia is an OC stand in. She's the "Phooey" of this universe, and she's older than the boys by 2 1/2 years. Here's her photoshoot. 
> 
> -Donaldtheduckdad
> 
> \- Jorratedlegs


	3. Chapter 3

Oriane dodged a stray chair thrown in her direction, a consequence of Flintheart dodging at the last minute.

She didn’t pay attention to the cantankerous old men, who caved to their rivalry in a contest of strength. Zan was her priority.S he pushed the chair back and stood, scorn pressed on her face. Oriane studied her employer, and she saw her acceptance burn into thinly controlled anger.

She remained a statue, sensing Zan had chosen to resolve this in her preferred manner. Zan walked quickly to where Glomgold had perched on the table; an odd description since his feet weren’t made for perching. He raised a clipboard ready for fire and a black ink pen in the other. Scrooge had ducked for cover following the chair throw, and wisely maneuvered around the table, formulating a full proof plan to take him down.

Oriane wasn’t going to take part in this, not this time, and she watched with some amusement as Zan approached Flintheart from behind. She swiped his tam o’ shanter off his head and smacked him with it, as hard as imaginable possible. He didn’t have time to react, though it was apparent he was in the process of doing so. Zan buried her arms underneath his pits and tossed him, with some difficulty, onto the floor.

The thud that should’ve rocked the floor beneath their feet was silenced by reinforced renovations. Zan swung the man with very little effort and glared at him, panting. Hands on her hips, if it were possible for a woman to kill a man with a single glare, he’d be incinerated. She growled her anger, dark brown curls threatening to straighten into serpents just for this occasion.

“We’ve discussed this,” she snapped, bending to his level to jab a finger into his forehead. “You were going to be on your best behavior. We even had a presentation about it!”

“Ack!” He rolled back onto his feet, scowling back at her, “You know we never read those things!”

This was a woman determined to kill, willing to do so as long as it meant she’d be free of the pest they hounded her. But Zan was smarter than that, and given her desires were far more vicious than socially accepted, she massaged her temples, snapping back to reality.

“This is it,” she emphasized. “What did we say would happen if you couldn’t behave?”

Glomgold gulped. “I’d get the chair,” he grumbled, unable to look her in the eye. His cheeks reddened in shame.

“That’s right,” she crossed her arms. “You’re going to get the chair. Now, drag your seat to that corner,” she pointed to the right corner, nearest to the door, “and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.”

“But -,”

“Peep,” she glared, tone defying all sensible nature. Her extended didn’t falter, and Glomgold flushed, lowering his head as he wheeled his chair to the corner. He sat inside with a disgruntled sniff. He looked over the chair with a plead in his stare.

“I want my tam o’ shanter back,” he said, louder than normal but quieter for him. Zan’s glare narrowed, and he wheeled back. Silent again.

“He’ll get this back when this is over,” she returned to her seat and placed the cap on the corner of the table. “Mr. McDuck, you can sit down now.”

Scrooge’s cane was held in a grip that was akin to a knight ready to strike his foe, but his attention had long drifted away from Glomgold. Roxanne Featherly’s clear, monotone voice rattled the phone in his grip. The two women exchanged uneasy glances. Oriane found her phone in her back and swallowed.

“Just in an abnormal entity has appeared at the Scarpa International Museum! Chaos has erupted,” she continued, “the DPD seems incapable of controlling the unknown situation, but no injuries have been reported.”

Scrooge frowned. Oriane listened to her voicemail. Their silent understanding met each other halfway, and she swallowed, facing Zan with an apologetic expression.

“Ms. Owlson,” she said, “my daughter is at this location.”

“Oh.” Zan blinked, then inhaled, “Of course, of course, you can take my car.” Her disappointment fell under, and she nodded, “Take my car, please.”

“Ack, we need someone fast and skilled on the road,” Scrooge snapped, already at the door. “She’ll ride with me. Launchpad will get us.”

Zan bundled her presentation and documents in her arms, far more efficiently than Glomgold would’ve. “You mean your driver,” she winced, snapping her finger for Glomgold to follow, “hasn’t he cost you millions in property damage?”

Oriane didn’t wait for his response, but she felt his annoyance pressing on her back.

“Yes, yes, he has,” he snapped. “But he’s the only man who can do what I need him to do.”

That was the end of their conversation, as no words were needed for what they needed to do.

* * *

Dickie didn’t know what to do. She knew what she wanted, what needed to be done, but as the crowd thickened, hands and feet slamming on the closed doors, she realized opportunities were limited. But...she glared at the black rabbit whose eyes were three sizes too large and panic was thick on her tongue, he needed someone to save him.

Her tongue was on the roof of her mouth. She looked aside, searching for something to grasp onto, and she gasped. She returned to her student and her family, who were held captive by their uncle’s restraint. For a moment, she hesitated. Donald’s worry and annoyance was an expression she was familiar with, having it seen it more times than she could count. Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t a parent who was willing to throw his children in needless danger, especially when danger faced him directly.

“I need you to listen to me,” she whispered harshly. “The teachers have gone to the higher floor to survey the damage.”

“They’ve left,” Huey countered, eyes wide. “How could they -,”

“I know it sounds weird, but they’ve got their reasons.” She glanced back at the crowd, “I know why they’re freaking out, and I need to help my friend.”

Ofelia stared into the group and sighed, “You mean the guy responsible for this?”

Lying wasn’t an option. “Yeah,” she winced. “But 9 out of 10, he has his reasons.”  
“I don’t care,” Donald jerked them away, glaring at Dickie in the manner of a protective parent. “We need to get out of here, not go through that!”

“Wait.” It was as if a light bulb clicked on above Huey’s head. He smiled at Dickie, “We may not need to go through anything.” He directed them to where Dickie previously contemplated, the stage. A red velvet banner was spread across from end to end to celebrate the event.

“You’d need to get up there,” Ofelia said. “You can’t just swing and save him without any height.” It didn’t take her long to find an opening, “Over here.” She pointed down the main hall and motioned to the right, “There’s a staircase to the second floor. Huey and I will untie the banner’s bottom ropes, and you can go in.”

She and Huey winked at each other, and released themselves from Donald’s hold before he had a chance to respond. Dickie shrugged apologetically, but didn’t wait for him to lose his temper.

An ardent optimist, Dickie preferred to delay the worst case scenario, if possible. She didn’t know what Oswald’s arrival meant. It didn’t automatically indicate Gigi was in trouble, or had worsened troubles for some unfortunate person. Their moral alignment wasn’t necessary. Goldie O’Gilt held an uncanny ability to deal terrible blows to good and bad people alike.

As she climbed the stairs, panting and doing her best to push aside those worries, she realized Oswald’s reasons were far from pleasing. His reasons were irrelevant. She swallowed and pushed open the door, and frowned at the strong scent of panic and terror. She passed decorative paintings and statues, each weary of their stories, and found the pillar where gold, soft rope was tightened around it.

She unraveled it quickly and climbed on top of the railing. Ensuring the others did the same was redundant. She felt their fingers perform the duty as their uncle stayed near, watchful in case the crowd decided to turn around. Police sirens echoed in the distance, nearly drowned under panicked screams as people fled into the streets.

“I’m coming Oswald,” without hesitation she stepped off, and was suddenly, flying across the main event. Seeing her student and her family in the corner of her eye.

“Oswald,” she shouted as loud as her vocal chords allowed. “Oswald, you idiot, take my hand!”

She couldn’t count how many had surged around him. He was thrown and pushed aside, and for a moment, she lost sight of him when he fell below. She had done her part. He needed to do his. Losing sight of him wasn’t the end, and she pled for him to pass through, to enter the space only he understood.

It was too fast. Gravity moved too quickly. She braced for impact as the wall came into sight, another pillar, and she closed her eyes, cursing her damned luck. Her muscles tensed and cursed her stupidity.

And then, she landed. She rolled on her side, pushed along the wall. Her heart throbbed in her chest. She scrambled upright and felt someone clinging onto her. With a quick glance, the tension in her body was replaced with relief. There he was, curled into her chest. His arms were wrapped around her neck, and an idly poked her cheek. Dickie exhaled, pushing herself in a sitting position as she tugged him along.

“I’m assuming,” she gritted, “you’ve got a good reason for crashing my job related party.”

“Yeah,” he bit back. He pulled away, “A real good reason.” With a pant, he stood on shaky feet, and smiled when Dickie gripped his side, steadying him from the floor, “Goldie’s in deep.”  
  
Dickie nodded, sliding her tongue off the roof of her mouth. “I suspected,” she hissed, “you snapped in and out, didn’t you.”

“Only had enough to get here,” he glanced behind him and winced, “and out of there, of course. I don’t think I can jump back to the house.”

“So she’s safe?”

“She’s with Mr. McDuck,” he said. “He’s doing his best, but he said it’d be best to notify her next of kin.”

Dickie clawed on the wall, or would’ve had she possessed nails. Standing, she released the breath she held, “You couldn’t have called!?”

“I tried,” he cried. “Your mom didn’t answer! You didn’t answer!”

“We were at work,” Dickie gestured madly. “You could’ve,” she ran her fingers through her hair, desperate for a correct response, “I don’t know! Not ink blot yourself in the middle of a crowd! Do you have any idea how terrified the people are?”

Glass shattered in the distance, and someone screamed. “Ain’t as bad as it was in Albuquerque,” he shrugged.

Dickie groaned. “They thought you were a shadowed,” she gripped his wrist. “We need to get out of here.” She escaped through the back. Heart racing and thoughts keeping pace, she didn’t think to ask him what her pushed him to make such an idiotic decision.

She planned to, but now wasn’t the time. They sprinted further down. She knew there was a back door exit somewhere, but as she gained some momentum, adrenaline coursing through her veins, he dragged on his heels. Jerked back, she spun around breathlessly.

“Oswald -,”

“Dickie, I can drop us there. I have enough to drop us now.”

“Why?”

Anger was absent in his glare, leaving frustration and fear. She tasted it on her tongue. “I don’t know what happened,” he explained, slowly. “Can’t tell you if I tried.”

“Then try, Oswald.” She glanced over his shoulder, “The news is out there. Mom’s going to be heading here soon.”

“We don’t have time. I just need…,” he covered his mouth and gasped. “Your mom is a smart lady. She’ll find us. Come with me. It’s serious.” His proffered hand waited, and she shook her head, almost in disbelief.

She wanted to ask what about her mom, but it didn’t seem right. Whatever happened, Dickie swallowed, she was going to find out. For better or worse, soon or later, there was no avoiding the inevitable, and she touched his smooth fur that tangled in her feathers. This touch electrified every existing neuron in her body, and her eyes closed instinctively as black bubbled around them.

This was her favorite part. The emptiness, the light headedness kept her full and grounded, despite the awareness they were falling, being swallowed whole. There were no teeth, no ivory sharpness to gnaw their bones to dust, but the hunger was present as they dipped out of existence. She exhaled with a smile, carrying the hope everything would turn out as it should.

Increasing darkness didn’t stunt her senses. She heard a far away cry, shrill and unnerving. She nearly lost track of silence and was going to complain as her eyes parted, but then she saw what was careening towards her. Velvet rope bound his wrists and ankles. His feathers burned brighter than a ghost pepper, but there wasn't anything he could do to escape. Control loss led her to panic. A scream nearly blared out of her mouth, and she raised her arms to push. Create a distance from this monstrosity. Do anything to stave its hunger. Anything. 

But she didn't want it to go away, not completely. It wasn't like it was going to release her now. 

The emptiness was overwhelming. She wasn’t allowed to react when Donald, tangled in banner and ropes, careened into them as the ink took hold. She wondered what she could’ve done in that fleeting second, had she gained controlled, but she knew her superfluous sentiment wasn’t wanted. He slipped in behind Oswald, pushing his face into her chest. In the inkwell they sped, tumbling and spiraling, inches apart as she tried to reach their grasps.

It made her stomach queasy, and she covered her mouth, fearful her breakfast burrito was going to make a reappearance. She doubted Oswald would appreciate its entry into his inkwell. The truth was the wait time was notoriously short; it wasn't longer than a second. 

* * *

The inkwell fountain poured them out, and they landed, unceremoniously, onto a hard, carpeted rug.

An elbow jabbed her spine. A knee was tucked in her gut. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion overtook her as she pulled and pushed herself free. The two men groaned pathetically at her side, and Donald quacked softly, moaning in pain.

Dickie grasped ahead, and pulled down. What she held was hard, slim, and lifting her head she saw it was the limb of a desk, a writing desk. Her eyes blinked wearily where they fell on a small bottle of ink with its pen resting inside. An open journal perched on the end. Neat, cursive script blanketed a page and a half. Swallowing her questions, Dickie pulled herself up, careful to not waste the ink on her head.

Her legs were like jelly. Her feet were marshmallows. She leaned on the desk, back straight, head bent, and tried to catch her breath while pushing off her nausea.

“Alright, okay,” she panted, raising her head just a fraction for a quick look of the room. “You’re safe. You’re alive. You need to find Gigi.”

Gigi was what mattered. Was the only thing that mattered to Dickie. Oswald said her grandmother was in trouble, actual trouble, and though their family wasn’t a stranger to trouble, his worried tone planted fear in her heart.

It didn’t take her long to gather her senses into an agreeable state. With one last head shake, she left the open room and made a turn at the corner. Soft sounds wept down the corridor, and the sole source of light was a window placed in the middle. Dickie didn’t wait. She chased sobs muffled in pain and sorrow, and didn’t care her shoes trembled the floorboards.

“Gigi,” she whispered. Her knees knobbed against each other, and she pushed along the wall, forcing her mind to stay awake. This was the problem with inking out, as Oswald called it. The brain required time and care to process the abrupt change in setting. Her neurons flashed hotly, like a combusting star, and the world spun, tilting here and there.

Defying its dipping ways wasn’t an option. Her shoulder slammed on the wall, and she pushed onward, dragging along as she slid down. Her legs wobbled. Her ankles twisted. Her energy emptied, and she slowly slid down the wall, groaning at the pointlessness of it all.

She thought of her mom, who was most likely worried out of her mind, and her grandmother, whose last words consisted of boasting abiding her latest swipe. Damn fairies, Dickie scowled, and her head bobbed to the side.

“Impulsive, reckless if I’ve ever,” someone grumbled down the hall, and quick, sharp footsteps marched to where she was slouched on the floor.

A firm hold gripped her arm. Her sluggishness didn’t put up a fight. A head was dipped next to her, arm wrapped over somebody’s shoulders. She had questions, yes, but her disoriented mind put everything on pause. She relied on his hoarse, scratchy voice that increased in volume the more he cursed and ranted.

“One job,” he spat, whiskers trembling in rage. “I gave them one job, and they couldn’t do that without causing a mess. Ack, cannae believe that woman irked their ire. I warned her!”

“What,” her neck rolled, tossing her head onto his. Her language slurred and mushed together, more like an infant than an adult. “Warned who? Oswald said -,”

“That’s what I get for getting a discount rabbit,” they entered a cool room, and Dickie was dropped in a cushy chair in the corner. “Now, you sit here, and,” he gripped the chair’s arms and lowered himself to meet her droopy gaze, “don’t you do what I know you want to do, y’hear young lady?”

“Yes, Unca’ Gideon,” she slurred, drool dribbling on the side of her beak. “I’ll stay put.”

He nodded, scowl deeper than it’s ever been, and he disappeared around the corner, passing a closed door on his way. She heard running water and glass cups set in the counter. Her head lolled on the side, and she sighed, shoulders slagging.

Her eyes snapped open, and surveyed the open room. Not his writing area. No. He’d never perform his other work so close to his primary in once. Dickie inhaled and stepped the last remains of dizziness away. The door wasn’t far, and all she had to do was avoid hitting the coffee table. Gripping the doorknob, she twisted it quietly, pressing her front completely on the door.

“Guess I ought tae wake the buffoons,” she heard him gripe. “This is what cheap labor gets me.”

Dickie wanted to smile. Had she’d been there under better circumstances she would’ve drank tea with her uncle, teasing him for his stinginess. She slipped inside without making a sound and was struck by an unnaturally cold temperature. She gripped her vest as close as it could go and searched the room. There were medical supplies on the shelves, placed line after line in a methodical manner she knew her uncle prescribed to. Oddities encased in jars, tombed in a watery prison, blinked at her. Monkey’s paw, Newt’s tongue, and The Jeweled Heart decayed and slithered and sparkled in their containment units. These riches were worth more than diamonds, and despite her interest, Dickie found her attention swayed to the center of the room.

Goldie lied on a medical table; cold, stiff, eyes closed. Sweat coated her feathers, giving it a slimy appearance that made Dickie’s stomach sink, and soon she was standing next to her, body clear under sharp light. Her feathers were pale and dim, closer to grey than white; this extended to her hair, weak gold falling beneath white light.

“Gigi,” she murmured, tears swelled. “What happened to you,” she reached to touch her. She needed to confirm this was her grandmother. Her defiant, devious, and daring grandmother who had always proven herself smarter than she had any right to be.

“Don’t ye’ do it lass.”  
  
Dickie held her outstretched hand, inches from her grandmother’s face. She didn’t turn to face him. “What do you expect me to do,” she said quietly. “What happened to her?”

“Ye’ could’ve waited for me to come back with your tea,” he frowned. He spared an uneasy glance on the life strangled corpse on the medical table, and with a grimace, he carried the tray and placed it on a desk to the side.

“It won’t do us any good to let it get cold,” he handed her a cup, “seven lumps of tea.” He grinned ruefully, “Just the way you like it.”

Despite her grief and concern, Dickie took the cup and found a seat on a wheeled stool. The taste with delightfully bitter, sugar softened its edgy feel.

“Uncle Gideon,” the tea lulled her to a tentative calm. She leaned back, alert and braces for impact, “Tell me what happened,” she said softly.

“It’s simple,” his hoarse tone clawed in dark humor, “yer grandma pissed off the wrong driver.”

Dickie frowned. Experience taught her when one claimed simple, it was a lie. Intentional or not, simple was a moniker to shield the painful truth. She didn’t believe she was prepared to discover the complexities lying on Gigi’s chest.

But she’d been stripped of having a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gideon is a character I've wanted to use FOREVER, or at least since I discovered his existence. I love the potential, especially when it comes to family. The show has done a great job at showing unconventional/traditional family set ups. In some canons, Gideon is Scrooge's half-brother. Half-siblings are far more common than you'd think. If DuckTales isn't going to do it, I get that, but it isn't going to stop me. /Rant over.
> 
> What happened to Goldie? What's her relationship with Gideon? How's Scrooge going to deal with this? You'll find out soon!


	4. Chapter 4

Huey wanted to scream.

Screaming was not an option.

A controlled scream that lead to panic and other disorderly actions may have relieved his elevated anxiety, but Huey defeated temptation. Wisdom told him his tempered anxiety wasn’t enough to save his uncle. He ran to the spot where his uncle disappeared.

What had been a black sphere was now nothingness. It reverted to clean, clear air, and on the floor lied its fading black ink spots. They were responsible for spiriting his uncle away. To the front police officers covered the area, and a little bit closer were teachers doing their best to calm the remaining parents and children.

Calm was not what they wanted. Huey and Ofelia wanted their uncle, and it was apparent neither the teachers or law enforcement were capable of getting him back. Uncle Donald was swept in a black sphere, and they didn’t think they were apt to explain this to their family.

Which was fortunately sooner than they expected.

“What is going on here,” Scrooge’s shout echoed. “Where’s Donald and the children?” Their uncle’s ire sliced the settled quiet to pieces. The glanced over to see him march towards them, avoiding broken glass and stone. The panic resulted in zero injuries, but it wasn’t so for priceless vases and statues.

At Scrooge’s side was a brown skinned woman with night driven hair. Her eyes were forest green. She glanced around anxiously, staring above and below, but whatever she searched for, she didn’t find.

“Ms. O’Gilt. Mr. McDuck,” greeted a velvet tone, “it is an honor to finally meet you.”

“Huey! Ofelia!” He stopped in the middle, “Step away from that witch!”

Ofelia glanced over her shoulder and groaned, shoulders rising in horror. “Uncle Scrooge,” she said in a long strained drawl, “that’s Miss Wolfsbane, Headmistress of Eldritch Academy.”

She was a tall, slender woman, adorned in obsidian. It was a pleasant contrast to her pale grey fur and stunning light blue eyes, but no one was in the mood to admire her beauty. Huey and Ofelia met their uncle halfway. The woman moved ahead and kneeled at the spot where their uncle and Ms. Con Vit disappeared.

“Uncle Donald’s missing,” Ofelia said with a gasp. “Ms. Con Vit, my teacher’s aide also disappeared, and we don’t know where they went.”

“It was a black rabbit,” Huey added. “A black rabbit Ms. Con Vit knew!”

“Oswald,” the woman wiped the residual off the floor. “It’s ink matter,” she tested. “Pieces of the inner worlds from the old world. The Old World.”

Miss Wolfsbane stood idly to the side, muzzle raised with a curious gleam in her cold stare. “It appears this one isn’t as...refined as others,” she tilted her head. “Perhaps, they should’ve called Acme Acres, or possibly Warnerstock. The Old World’s life blood runs strong there.”

Huey didn’t understand what the kindly woman meant, but he knew his uncle did. Irritation darkened his scowl in ways anger couldn’t, and he snapped his cane on the floor with harrowing effect.

“Wolfsbane,” he said, surprisingly calmly, “what is the matter going on here?”

“And where’s my Dickie,” the woman asked, turning towards them with worry in her stare.

Miss Wolfsbane was unperturbed by his ire and the mother’s concern. She nodded solemnly and dropped the gold coin into Scrooge’s palm. In a single moment Scrooge’s frustration and low brooding anger melted into disbelief. He held the coin in his balm, breath lodged somewhere between his lungs, and murmured, almost too quietly for anyone to hear, “It cannae be.”

“It can be and is,” she smiled, with and without kindness. “The young man who caused this...confusion dropped it on his way in. I supposed we ought to have used a sleeping draught or the mask spell to soothe the crowd.”

The woman came behind her, “Why didn’t you? You could’ve helped Oswald. He’s taken Dickie -,”

“And Uncle Donald,” Ofelia reminded. “He fell in the black sphere thing.”

“Yes, but he had to have reason to ask for Dickie. I missed his calls.” She didn’t have to look at her phone to convey her shame. It strong held her as she stood.

Scrooge heard none of it, Huey believed, or if he did, they were secondary. He caressed the coin in his palm, studying its engravings repeatedly. When he raised his head, they were bristled with tears, but these weren’t tears of grief or pain. He was confused.

“Where did he get this,” he asked himself.

The woman inhaled, seemingly connecting dots they didn’t know were there. “If Oswald left this behind, mistakenly,” she added quickly, “then Goldie has one too.”

He swirled at her. “What,” he stretched, anger finally rising to the surface.

“It’s their employer,” she explained without fear or embarrassment. “He gives them a token to assure they’ll get the entirety of their fee when they’ve acquired whatever he requested.”

“So you’re saying -,”

“I’m saying,” she continued, “Oswald wouldn’t leave this purposely. I have ten missed calls. Either something has gone very well or very bad for them.” She gestured to chaos’ remains surrounding them, “I doubt it’s the former.”

Huey saw something else in his uncle’s expression he wasn’t entirely accustomed to seeing, not yet, not now. He saw it swirl and weasle about in his pale blue irises. The motion was too quick for him to grasp. He and Ofelia exchanged uneasy glances and nodded.

“I really hope this doesn’t affect our Renaissance Art Analysis badges,” she mumbled.

Miss Wolfbane brightened. “Don’t worry children,” she soothed. “We’ve already scheduled a meeting in Warnerstock for the surrounding areas to attend.”

Scrooge didn’t care to discuss more about their extracurricular activities. “Come on kids,” determination driven in his glare, he marched to the back of the museum. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

The children glanced at the woman standing in front them, and she flushed, as if remembering they had never met. She jumped, a little, and then grinned sheepishly.

“Hello kids, my name’s Oriane Tanith -,”

“After the lunar goddess that accepted human sacrifice,” Huey asked, right before his sister beside him lightly bopped him on the back of his head. “What,” he frowned.

Humor lied in offense's ground. "Yeah," she laughed lightly. "That's the one."

* * *

The drive to the mansion was longer than they expected but shorter too. Launchpad took them throughout town and over sidewalks as well. But none of these seemed to aggravate or stir Scrooge to conversation. He spent the entirety of the drive staring at the coin in his head, lost in thought.

His silence extended to the mansion. They crossed the threshold and followed him upstairs to one of his private studies. He’d began to mumble at this point, grumbling about thieves and wrenches that crossed the wrong clan. None of this made sense to them. It didn’t matter that he was a few feet away, no one was brave enough to ask him what ailed him.

It was apparent to them some sort of spell threatened to unbecome him, but it wasn’t the work of Magica De Spell. Knowledge of his speechless ire spread across the mansion, and noticing one family member was traded for another, they followed him into his study.

“What’s going on,” Dewey whispered.

“Uncle Donald was abducted by a rogue rabbit,” Ofelia answered. “And Uncle Scrooge found a coin left behind.”  
  
Louie perked, “Gold?” He walked forward, “Uncle Scrooge, is there gold?”

“Louie,” Huey scolded. “Our uncle was -,”

“Wait, it can’t be,” Webby gasped.

It happened faster than their minds were able to process, and as it was Webby, this was understandable. She sidestepped the brothers and rushed to Scrooge, pupils dilating in excitement as she beheld the coin lying in his grasp. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. But she managed to tilt her head to her uncle and squeeze out, “Is it really?”

“Aye,” he frowned. “But how?”

The others stared transfixed and bewildered. It wasn’t easy being the only one locked out of the loop. Scrooge and Webby were two sides of the same coin. He brooded. She exploded with excitement, jumping on her toes as she tried to contain her overwhelming energy.

“I can’t believe it,” she waved her arms, running to them. “Can you believe it,” gripping Huey’s shirt, she shook him madly, “they couldn’t even find it when we visited!”

“What are you talking about,” Louie raised his tone a little, more nervous than interested. He sensed another adventure was coming there way. “Webby, it looks like Uncle Scrooge was charged with an overdraft!”

“Or he’s hitting a late life - midlife crisis.”

“Ofelia,” Huey scolded, glaring mildly. “This is serious.”

“Is that a thing,” Dewey tilted his head to the side. “Can 151 year olds have midlife crises?”

“That isn’t important,” Webby jittered. “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” they said.

Webby may have rolled her eyes at their ignorance, but there was no time to waste. She swallowed her exasperation, “It’s the -,”

“Knight Templars Treasure.”

Their heads fled to Scrooge, still standing at his desk. “I still can’t believe it,” he mumbled, disbelief plain to see. “Somehow, this rabbit,” he spat as if it was spoiled haggis, “managed to get a coin from his employer! Somehow, this employer, this thief stole from me own clan!” The coin lied flat in his palm, then was slammed on the desk with profound fury.

“Uncle Scrooge?”

“I won’t have it,” he darkened. “I must know the truth,” he grabbed a black candlestick telephone and turned the dial, “Daddy would’ve told me. I thought we’d mended things!” He waited for someone to pick up the line, and when they did -

“Daddy?” He inhaled, “Hello, Mummy, yes, is Daddy near? Ah, he’s with Uncle Jake. Oh, you’re saying he’s arguing with Uncle Jake. I see.”

They heard two very angry, very Scottish voices battle on the other end of the line. One louder than the other, with constant switcheroos making it hard to tell who was screaming at who.

“Uncle Jake,” Scrooge winced. “Uncle Jake, please let Daddy out of the headlock.”

“Ae will nae! The blast accused me o’ treachery,” he shouted. “Sayin’ Ae betrayed the family when we knae the only one backstabbing family is him!”

Scrooge turned away from the children and guest. “Daddy, you can’t say that to your brother!”

“Ae did because it’s true,” Fergus gasped. “He gave the gold away! The treasure!”

“Ae didnae,” Jake snapped back. “My kin came. He searched. He found it. He gets tae keep it. Yer jes mad ye’ didnae find Da’s clues in time!”

“It was for me and me son -,”

There was a hard crack, then a hard drop. Scrooge swallowed. All he could hear were dry pants and dark mutterings. “Ye got two,” came Jake’s dark timbre, threatening. “Ae knae ye prefer tae forget, but blood doesn’t. A McDuck found the treasure, even if it wasn’t the one ye wanted.”

Scrooge understood. In their battle, understanding came. “Thanks, Daddy, Uncle Jake. Tell Mummy I’ll call soon,” he returned the phone to its position and exhaled.

“So,” Louie asked. “What happened?”

He crossed his arms across his chest. “A McDuck found the Knight Templars’ treasure,” he groaned. He shook his weary head, “Bless me bagpipes,” he shook his weary head.

“Curse me kilts,” said another, whose voice did not belong. They swerved to the other side of the study where the bookcase was. A man of similar height and position stood there wearing an almost black velvet blue jacket over a deep but lighter shade waistcoat. His buttons were gold. His whiskers were shaggier, longer than Scrooge, even scraggly would say, and on his beak were rectangular glasses, sitting where they should.

“Who -,”

He wasn’t interested in them. “I know you have it,” he complained. “Where is it,” he scanned the book shelf, pressing finger on aged spines until he found what he searched for. And when he did, “Ah, Here We go Around the Mulberry Bush and Other Unpleasant Toxins,” he plucked it off the shelf, “just what I needed.” It was only when he spun and saw their incredulous (and angry) stares did he realize their presence.

“Gideon.”

“Scrooge.”

“What are you doing in my home?”

He raised the book, “I need to borrow this.”

Scrooge didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at the man and grabbed him by the collar. He rammed his back onto the shelf, disregarding the books that fell out of place and onto the floor.

“Ye crook,” he twisted velvet in his grasp. “Ye’ stole our -,”

“Stole?” His smile held no humor, no joy, “I didn’t steal, Scrooge. I found. And it is not different than what you’ve done.” “In fact,” he gripped Scrooge’s wrist with his free hand, “it’s much more respectable than you.” He twisted his wrist sharply, catching Scrooge off guard, and the children jumped as they watched their grandfather slammed back onto his desk, chest first. Webby was the first to move, having shouted for her grandmother.

“Now, now Webbigail,” Gideon grinned. “Don’t be rude. I’ve always talked to Bentina. She and I have an understanding, and so does Duckworth.” His tongue clicked, “I only came for a book,” he raised it as if to prove his point, “and to well ask you for your assistance.”

“And what would that be,” Scrooge spat.”

“I need you to hold your sweet lass while I save her life, or,” he shrugged, “we can leave her to her delirium and convulsions and potential loss of sanity, and death. Never forget death.”

Oriane gasped, covering her mouth. She stepped forward. “Gideon,” she swallowed. “Is Dickie with you? Where’s Dickie and Goldie?”

“Goldie,” Scrooge grunted, fighting against his gentle touch. “She’s with you? Why in Dismal Downs -,”

“She works for me,” he answered plainly. “And as much as I loathe to admit it, one of my best employees is succumbing to Mulberry Madness, so can we hurry this along?”

Scrooge stopped resisting. He stopped cursing. He stopped everything. Every muscle in his body stilled in a second; every feasible thought in his head had frozen. His heart quickened. He trembled, shakily, “Mulberry Madness?”

“Yes,” Gideon said, tone heavy. “That’s why I sent Oswald to find Oriane, then Dickie. And now, I’m here for you, because frankly speaking, Oswald’s an idiot.”

He debated his options. Gideon was here. Gideon, the thief, the liar, the...Scrooge didn’t close his eyes, but was cornered into doing so. His options were few. He didn’t have to wait that. So he took the man’s silent offer and nodded painfully. “Fine,” he croaked.

Gideon released him and stepped back, book underarm. “Now,” he sighed. “Was that so hard?”

The kids watched on, at a loss of words, and worse, loss of action. Scrooge stood, massaging his wrist, and side glance towards them, shame and guilt written on his face.

“Are you going to tell us,” Dewey pointed to the blue clad man, “or is this some sort of guessing game.”

Gideon faced the children and smiled a smile that would’ve blinded them had it been possible. He bent his knee, extending a hand. “Ah, me wee bairns,” he chuckled. “You carry Hortense’s glare so well.”

“Wait,” Huey raised a hand. “You said Hortense, do you mean?”

“Your grandmother, yes,” he laughed, voice hoarse and thick. It, like his whiskers, were scratchy and scraggly, but strangely pleasant to the ear. “We met a few times in life, always a good laugh, tons of fun. Until that time we, -,” he waved the last half of the sentence away, “forget about that, I’m Gideon Scott McDuck. Nice to meet you.”

Louie whirled to Scrooge. “McDuck, so he’s -,”

“Brother,” Scrooge said, flatly. “Half-brother.”

“Same father, different mothers,” he laughed and nodded to Ofelia. “She knows how it goes.”

“It’s kind of the opposite, sir.”

“Aye, I reckon it is. Your family actually cares, especially your uncle. Don’t worry, he’s on the couch napping.”

This part of the family seemed to care, as they were struck dumb with shock. Webby dropped on her bottom and fell back, hands crossed against her chest. “Scotty McDuck,” a green tinge blushed her cheeks. “You’re Scotty McDuck.”

“Haven’t gone by that since the 30s,” he chuckled.

It was easy to see how this was going to play out. Before they had the chance, Scrooge stepped in between holding his glare angrier than ever.

“Where’s Goldie?”

His beak formed a perfect ‘o.’ “Right, right,” he hissed apologetically, “we should go now. I had Dickie restrain her.” He retrieved a small device out of his breast pocket, reminiscent to a remote car key. “Told her to put her on her stomach,” he said, pressing the button on top. What appeared to be clear air was split right down the middle, mixed in violets and light blues, the group stepped back in surprise, and watched as Gideon walked into it.

He poked his head out, “It’s air conditioned.”

“You said needing Dickie to restrain her,” Scrooge said slowly.

“Yes,” Gideon confirmed. “You don’t want her to suffocate in her own vomit, do you?” He disappeared in the portal he opened without a second thought.

* * *

Gideon knew he didn’t have to say anymore after that. Goldie. He was at the counter, grinding the mulberry fruit in a bowl when they crashed into his home. Shouting and groaning at the tumble. He’d done his part. He warned Dickie of their arrival, told her to prepare for their coming.

“Kiss and hug your mother,” he patted her back, “but warn them before they go in. It won’t be pretty.”

He’d brew it. Grind it, heat it, and insert it in a needle. He’d have to insert the contents and hope it’d take effect. But as he prepared his concoction with Here We go Around the Mulberry Bush and Other Unpleasant Toxins perched nearby and stared at his reflection in his kitchen window, he knew there were other things to fear than a neurological incapacitating bullet and an angry half-brother.

Ahead ominous headlights flickered in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gideon is a character I've wanted to write forever. Ever. His story in this will be different from his original stories.
> 
> Also Peter Capaldi. Very much Peter Capaldi.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someone’s at the door,” she observed.
> 
> Gideon tossed his head back, “Do you mind seeing it? I’m not in the mood.”
> 
> “Is it safe?”
> 
> “Course not, it’s the Board of Executives.” He was limp in his chair, laid about at an awkward position, “But they won’t hurt you, as long as you’re not on their list, which you aren’t yet.” He gestured to the door, “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge and Goldie reunite, and it isn't pretty.

A comfortable, respectable home was not at all what Scrooge had imagined, but aside from an idle thought here and there, commonly spaced decades apart, the home of his half-brother was barely a thought.

An out of place odor befuddled him. He inhaled the rancid stench of the moors. He heard horse hooves and abundant chatter move far away from him. He didn’t know where the horses were moving. He didn’t know what the people were saying except that it was loud and dirty and just too much for him at the moment.

Its architecture exasperated him. He determined this home was one floor but spacious. He sensed staying near his half-brother, whose hums chuckled around the corner, was in their best self-interest until they located Donald and Goldie.

He couldn’t determine exactly what the problem about this house was. His senses alerted him to an amiss presence in the house, but none could directly identify or describe it. They simply knew something was not right or wrong.

“Kids, stay close,” he warned, moving his arm in front them. “We don’t know what we’ll find here. What sort of mischief Gideon has in front him.”

“Ms. Oriane already left,” Huey pointed. “She went through that door,” he said, their focused on the steel metal door that clashed with the woodland decor. He turned and counted, “And Dewey went with her.”

Scrooge’s heart leapt to his throat. Getting an answer from Gideon was moot unless you were fond of riddles and puzzles, which Scrooge was, but he was in no mood for them. He led the children to the door and swung it open. The stagnant cold didn’t disturb him. He pinched his eyes and pushed onward with the children at his tail feathers.

Louie held Huey’s hand. Sweat clung to his feathers as they lost their healthy color. “I see a lot of pickled organs,” he shivered. “And why is it so cold?”

Huey readied an answer.

“It’s a medical center,” Webby hazarded. Her imagination reached new heights and was smothered under exhilaration. The contents stored in this room were unimaginable, and yet, there they were. “That’s the Monkey Paw! And Snow White’s heart!” As the moved to the center of the room, she noticed a dark foreboding head staked above the wide paned window.

“Is that a -,” Louie gagged.

“Maleficient's skull,” Webby wheezed. “Her body was never recovered at her death in the 1500s. I can’t believe it. Do you know what a find this is? Uncle Scrooge will tell you!”

He told them nothing, mostly due to his inability to think of anything. As the children delighted in small tale horrors and their mysteries, Scrooge stared ahead at the table in the middle of the room. Oriane and Dickie stood above what lied there, trembling and cold. Hands locked in a tight embrace, Oriane opened her mouth to speak, and Dickie shook her head sadly. She’d been crying. Her mother was stiffer than a board.

Glassy eyes. Stiffened postures. Scrooge glanced at the table and felt his heart stick to the back of his chest. It descended soon after, sinking into what he knew as grief.

This pain did not intend to knock him off his feet. It did not blind him with rage. It was the sort that was unaware of the hurt it carried. He dropped his cane and moved to the table where she lied. On her side she was, pale feathered and sticky with sweat, but that was how Scrooge noticed it.

A network of inflamed veins took hold. Grander than a spider’s web and more malicious, its pale violet-pink hue festered at her fingertips and spread everywhere else. Her neck, breasts, and other reaches were stuck. Not even her tail was spared.

His touch wavered above, reaching to touch her and offer comfort.

“Don’t touch her,” Dickie wept. “We can’t touch her yet. I did. She screamed.”

He glanced at her. He saw her tearful green eyes and her mother’s stony glare. “What happened,” his whisper gnawed on anger.

Dickie blinked back tears and swallowed. “She was shot,” she said, clearly.

“By whom?”

“A Driver,” Gideon answered. He wore clear gloves and gripped a syringe with a long, bold end. He glanced at the children and sighed, “I think it’s time for you wee bairns to take your leave.”

“But -,”

“No, no,” his smiled argued nothing, tight and hard. “What we’re about to do isn’t something you should see,” he motioned to the door. “Your uncle’s waiting.”

The children paused. Their uncertainty was plain to see, and Gideon cleared his throat loudly, tilting his head downward as he scrutinized Scrooge’s firm posture.

“Scrooge,” he said politely.

“Eh?”

“The children.”

He faced them and didn’t see them. His eyes were too glossy and mind foggy. “Go to Donald,” he ordered, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll see you soon.”

Gideon’s smile fell on Dickie and Oriane. “Can you show them the way,” the undercut was clear in his tone. Saying more would be redundant.

Dickie nodded and forced a smile, ushering the kids out. Oriane lingered. Her fingers slid across the table, inches from Goldie’s feathers, and she inhaled sharply, nodding. “Yes, I’ll see you soon,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. She faced Gideon. “You’ll tell us, right?”

Gideon tossed his head to the side mildly, like a bouncy seesaw. “I don’t have much of a choice, eh,” he chuckled. “Now, go on.”

She did reluctantly and closed the door behind her.

It was the three of them. Gideon holding the syringe. Scrooge standing near, warningly and menacingly. Both shared the same goal and differing sentiments. It was an opportune moment for them to air their grievances, festering for decades beneath the surface. An opportune moment to accuse and belittle the other, for their failures and successes. They shared a look that was unlike any look they’d given foe or friend.

Gideon laugh and blew out his nose. “I’m gonna stick it in your wife.”

“What,” he spat.

“Stick this,” he showed the syringe's bold needle. “Gonna stick it in her arse.”

“Gideon, you think -,”

“Either you do it, or I’ll do it.” He glanced down, “She’s starting to convulse.” He was correct. Her body spazzed and seized, bubbly drool pooled under her mouth. “Do you really want to argue now?”

She whimpered like an ailing child. Scrooge lowered his head and brought a clenched fist to his chest. “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered into her ear. “You’ll get better. I promise.”

Gideon rolled his eyes. “We don’t have all day,” he drawled. His light expression contradicted his harsh words. He pointed the needle directly above her tail. “I need you to hold her.”

“She can barely move.”

“Adrenaline's gonna give you the bird for that."

His glare crumbled the second their skin made contact. He ignored its clammy wetness and turned her in a half circle to where her beak was on his shoulder. Her gentle murmurs gave way to weeping.

She gasped a terrible strangled cry. “Please no,” she wept. Tears brighter than pearls dropped on Scrooge’s robe. “No, two apples, just the two,” she groaned as Scrooge shifted her position. He bared this deed silently and harshly, glaring daggers at Gideon. Gideon accepted his loathing and pressed a hand on Goldie’s spine.

“A stick and a burn,” he said clearly. In the needle went along with its injections.

Goldie’s eyes shot open, and with surprising swiftness, she began to struggle. But her struggles were weak and poorly coordinated. She couldn’t push or pull away from Scrooge’s grip no more than she could slide her lower half away. He pushed and injected all the way to the end, and they sat in stony silence as her weeping turned to labored pants.

“What’s happening?”

“It’s taking effect,” he clicked his tongue. “Won’t be long now. Just put her to bed, let her rest.”

“Where?”

“The door to your right.”

He sent his half-brother a cold hard glare that read their discussion had not ended. "I will know," venom spat at Gideon’s feet. The man preferred amusement over annoyance, and shrugged indifferently.

“We can get to that once you’ve put her to bed,” he dismissed. “I'll clean the mess she’s created and ensure we’re not all dead by morning.”

Scrooge wanted to retort with a harsh word or two. Good sense caught his tongue. She’d gone quiet and motionless in his arms. Her half-lidded gaze was unblinking as it stared at him. Her chest rose and fell; at last, her heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm. He swept an arm under her legs and used his strength to carry her out the room. He didn’t struggle for a second, despite suspecting his equilibrium was a little off.

The door opened on its own.

He ignored it.

The bedroom, he presumed, was homely and smaller than expected. It was certainly smaller than his own, but a part of him guessed this was the intent. Why would they get the master suite? This contraption Gideon constructed worked on clockwork and did as he commanded. Intuition led this assumption, and made it true for him.

Either way, the room was acceptable and met their needs. He lied her in bed, gently pulling the thick comforter under to put on top of her. Her head fell to the side away from him, revealing a knotted ponytail. Scrooge scoffed gently and moved to release the tangled knot.

They were fortunate it wasn’t as difficult as it could’ve been. The black hair tie slipped off easily and with it, a precious jewel. It rolled down her river of hair and stopped short of the edge. Scrooge blinked and stared, unsure of this jewel’s identity. As it twinkled in pale, dim light, there was no doubt that it was worth something for Goldie to pilfer it.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he said, slipping the jewel into his pocket. “For now,” on the edge of the bed, he lowered his beak and gently brushed it against her hair. Not quite kissing it. Not quite preening. He hovered for several seconds and exhaled, “Please, darling, just rest.” It seemed to do the trick. She closed her eyes with a deep sigh and released her mind to slumber.

Scrooge smiled tiredly, slowly stepping back as not to disturb her. He closed the door behind him without making a sound. When he turned, Gideon lounged in one of the chairs. He ate a sandwich in one grip as the other held a metal bin; something hard and light rolled inside.

“You want to see,” he offered between bites.

His stamina was exhausted. He didn’t glare at the man, but did spare a glare at the offending bullet he extracted out of Goldie.

“So is this?”

“Yeah,” his tongue rolled on the top of his mouth, pushing the bread off. “Lets begin.”

Gideon McDuck’s home was built for visitors. It was neither too fancy or too cluttered to accept any other consideration. It twisted, curved, and flattened, as it was designed to do, but none of its currents occupants were aware of this. They sensed something odd about this home, unlike his half-brother’s mansion. It was their failure to identify what exactly this oddity was.

Their failure was irrelevant in this case, as they huddled on a sofa and nearby chairs. Gideon McDuck suggested for them to make themselves at home. This was an easy task. Louie reclined on an outstretched living room sofa, and was appropriately cushioned under three oversized pillows. His brothers sat close to each other, elbow touching elbow.

Webby sat in between Donald and Oswald. One was less awake than the other, but which one was impossible to tell.

Gideon faced Scrooge and Oriane. “Goldie has a hit on her, and o’ course you want to say, ‘When does Goldie not have a hit on her,’” he snorted derisively, then turned dark. “This is a Mulberry Madness bullet. DRIVERS haven’t used this type in over 2,000 years.”

“I didn’t know they were hitmen,” Oriane said confusedly. “Aren’t they inter-dimensional drivers?”

“They aren’t just inter-dimensional drivers,” Gideon emphasized. “They’re the CIA of Inter-dimensional Travel, or the NDLS as long as you don’t piss them off.”

“What’s the NDLS,” Dewey whispered.

Huey leaned towards him. “It’s the National Driver License Service.”

“And that is -,”

“The DMV for Ireland,” he answered.

“Oh.”

Gideon pointed to Huey, “Smart boy.”

Louie frowned, “But the DMV doesn’t shoot people.” He pulled up in his comfortable shot, “Or I don’t think so. I know that one lady wanted to shoot Uncle Donald when he renewed his license.”

“Understandable, I’d want to shoot him too if I was working there,” Gideon conceded, but he shook his head. “Here’s the thing. Every time you go into a worm hole or portal or alternate dimension, DRIVERS know. You’d be correct that they’ve extended their services to driving. All of it goes into their books. Every adventure you’ve gone on? Recorded and documented. Every cent of treasure you find in some ancient, mysterious, not yours to take, but you’re going to do so anyways? Recorded, documented, and accounted for. Travel is their song, and they’re blasting it across your yard.”

“But if all they do is take in account of travel,” Webby broached the subject, “why did they try to kill Goldie??”

“She broke the rules.”

“The rules?”

“Yes, there are a lot of rules. Their revised statutes is fifty volumes.” He began to pace, “DRIVERS are always up in their business, but they really don't care. Most of their agents are drivers, take you to one place then the other, and you’re charged for time and space.”

“But don’t break the rules,” Webby said.

Gideon nodded, a slow, shark-like grin cracked his beak. He walked to the small girl and turned to Scrooge, “She understands.” He stepped back, setting the metal bin on the coffee table. “You can shoot a man dead, and they won’t care. You can save a man, and they won’t care. Within reason. Steal some gold here and there. Burn down an African village? Ain't the first one. But disrupt order? Order. Oh, they don’t like that. Mayhem and chaos, for thrills? That’s they’re job to clean it up, and they hate having to clean shit up.”

“Gideon,” Scrooge snapped.

“I’m not apologizing. Goldie went around breaking any rule she wanted, and she knew what she was doing, when you travel as extensively as her, you know better. And now, they want her dead. Why? They got tired of cleaning her shit. Eh?”

Silence found them, and each of them had something they wanted to say but didn’t know how to go about saying it.

Webby raised her hand.

“Yes, Ms. Vanderquack.”

“Are they efficient?”

“Yes.”

“What’s their percentage of confirmed kills?”

“About 99.99999% and so on.”

“So...why did the culprit use Mulberry Madness?”

Gideon grinned and hopped on his heel, pointing to her. “I really like her,” he laughed. “She’s a clever girl this one.” His praise made her blush, “Webbigail Vanderquack, you are the best of us.”

Huey seemed to understand what she meant, and his stare widened. “When was the last time someone used this,” he gulped, “bullet type?”

“Ah, about two thousand years ago.”

“And that’s why,” he snapped his fingers. “It takes too long! Mulberry Madness is potent, but death is slow coming. This can only mean the shooter didn’t want Goldie to die.”

Scrooge swirled to the children and swallowed thickly. “It devastates you. They could’ve wanted her to suffer,” a deadly tone took over.

“None of the drivers in deployment have ever been recorded for unnecessary cruelty,” Gideon argued. “They’re in and out. Kill and move on. You don’t leave a target alive unless you don’t want them to die, but you shoot them to make your boss think they're dying.”

“So why,” Oriane demanded. “Why use one of the most painful deaths around on her? Hm?”

“If it helps, this bullet didn’t hit any of her vital organs. The toxins released, but there was no damage. Came out clean. Cleaner than a baby’s bottom.” He gently kicked the leg of the table, “And this bullet was coated to 0.0001% of Mulberry. Enough to cause excruciating pain and trauma, but not enough to kill her...unless she turned a bullet to herself.”

“But you said -,”

He made a face, almost apologetic but too amused to feel it. “Yeah,” he rubbed an arm, “I may have exaggerated a bit, but I hadn’t analyzed the bullet at the time. Either way, they know she isn’t dead, and they aren’t happy.”

“Who?”

“The Board of Executives,” he cleared his throat. “All assassinations be a consequence of their action or inaction is recorded in their files. They know she isn’t dead, and they want to know why.”

His nature was unique, Scrooge observed. He didn’t know the last time he’d seen his half brother, perhaps seventy-five to a century past. He knew Gideon wore blue. It’d been his preference for years, reasons unknown to Scrooge and others. But where did his scowl originate? It wasn’t always this persistent and oddly bent at the corners of a knowing grin.

His quiet deadliness was sweet and sour. Unlike anything Scrooge had seen before. He didn't know what to do with it, or how to use it to his advantage. Foreign and incomprehensible, Scrooge crossed his arms at the worried thoughts scurrying across his sights.

“When are they coming,” Scrooge stiffened. “You think we’re going to let her go without a fight.”

“There won’t be a fight,” Gideon grumbled, falling down in one of the chairs. “Just had the walls redone, and you can’t believe how much it cost me to rewire the whole house. I can’t go through that again, no.”

“Ack, should’a gone to law school like Mummy wanted,” he massaged his temples and stretched.

Ofelia was closest to the window, sitting leg crossed. She gripped her ankles and stared at the family huddled together and saw that it was an unusual mix up of various ages and mismatched personalities. It was comfortable as it could be in their given circumstances, but she couldn’t ignore the tingling cold on her spine. Her grand uncle sat tight beaked and frigid beside the warm skinned woman and her daughter, the latter being her teacher’s aide.

There was something about his stare she was too young to understand. Her other grand uncle sat adjacent in a large chair, casual and winded if a little annoyed. A lot transpired in a short time, and she didn’t think he wanted to spend his afternoon surrounded by people he obviously disliked. Ofelia didn’t know what their story was, but if anything, she sensed her grand uncles hadn’t seen each other for a very long time, and wished for the separation to continue.

It would. Ofelia surmised this much. What troubled her was the waves floundering around them, and not just those two. Waves circled them, and when she glanced at Uncle Donald, sipping his tea and sighing, casting relieved stares at the each of them, she realized what caused it. She turned to the window on her side and opened her mouth, just a fraction to reveal surprise.

“Someone’s at the door,” she observed.

Gideon tossed his head back, “Do you mind seeing to it, Ofelia? I’m not in the mood.”

“Is it safe?”

“Course not, it’s the Board of Executives.” He was limp in his chair, laid about at an awkward position, “But they won’t hurt you, as long as you’re not on their list, which you aren’t yet.” He gestured to the door, “Please.”

“I’ll come with you,” Donald stood. He didn’t glare at either of his uncles, “Come on, Phooey.”

It was tense and silent. Dust particles drifted in and out of their vision. A door opened, some greetings were heard, and a door closed. Heavy, wobbling footsteps approached. Their heads rounded to them, and there they were. Donald and Ofelia were behind to the right; confusion and disbelief were etched on their faces as they weighed the board’s unusual appearance.

Dressed in modest clothing colored black, navy, and grey. In retrospect, there was nothing extraordinary or ordinary about them. Their business suits were formal and neat; outfits expected of someone in a position of authority. Four of them stood staring and pondering; their faces were mute. Their extended, bulbous beaks were unusual for most birds, even those with such beaks couldn’t compare to their curved largeness.

Some may have called them obscene. The family was positive they were extinct.

“Mr. McDuck and Mr. McDuck,” the one second to the left said in a scratchy, loud tone, “you know what we have come for, do you not?”

Gideon groaned, “I suppose, but can we talk after lunch?”

“What,” squawked the first to the right. “Drivers are always on time, and this is the most perfect time to discuss a matter of grave importance.”

“As the motto goes, always on time, right when we need to be,” he rolled forward, legs spread with his hands clasped in between. “I always hated that line. Always when we need to be. Terrible pun.”

Their feathers fluttered. “Mr. McDuck,” the second to the right moved its rickety eyes to the others, “and Mr. McDuck and family, may we discuss this in a better setting? We do not wish to inflict any bodily damage.”

Gideon waited for Scrooge, as did the others. “It isn’t my battle to win, old boy,” he said tiredly, “what do you want?”

Scrooge’s cold eye turned shrewd, though no one was able to see it for what it was. “Yes, let's get down to business,” he tipped his hat and stood, “I’m sure this quandary can reach a peaceful solution. Gideon, if you please.”

Gideon led the adults, aside from Donald, Dickie, and Oswald to the nearest room, and the children watched with rising alarm as their grand uncle closed the door behind him, without a wink or a twinkle in his eye.

“Um…,” Ofelia asked, “what just happened?”

“I lost track after the dodos entered,” Louie said from the couch, “but you have to admit they do know how to accessorize. I love the hats.”

“Louie,” Donald scolded.

“No, no,” Huey said, “he’s right. They’re dodos.”

“I know they’re the bad guys, but kids -,”

“No, Uncle Donald,” Ofelia explained. “They’re actually dodos. Refined, well dressed, and somehow not extinct dodo birds.”

“Dodos?”

“Yes.”

Dewey laughed, relieved. “How bad can dodos be,” he wiped an eye. “What are they going to do? Hit them with their beaks?”

Ofelia shrugged. "They may just shoot them and hide the bodies in the back yard."

"Oh," he paled. "That's horrifyingly descriptive."

No one disagreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part of writing this chapter was the dialogue. I like to think I've improved in that area.


	6. Chapter 6

Good planting produced sweet and crunchy apples. Her father’s apple tree bore delicious fruit, and every harvest she’d come and wait for an apple to drop. She picked the juiciest and brightest of the bunch, redder than its cousins. Teeth broke skin and consumed its flesh.

McDuck Mansion completed construction in the late 60s. The BlackJack Hotel business reputation blossomed during the 1920s and onward thereafter, but she’d taken the trip to Duckburg to examine the newly completed mansion for herself. She read reviews and reports, and as much as the notion defied her, she was impressed. The rooms and stairs and various compartments for gold and mystical antics were grander than described. She sought something to nitpick, something to tease, and found it in the backyard where she realized for all its rich beauty, its landscape was lacking.

One phone call later a landscape artist and gardener arrived. Shrubs and bushes and flower were destined to bloom on this land, and she quietly kneeled below to plant her tree. Using her trove she tore a small patch of Earth apart and dropped the seeds in. She nourished it with water. There was no need to worry for the length of time needed for the growth to begin; she acquired her seeds from a reputable source. Apple trees on O’Gilt land were crunchy and sweet. Setting herself up for disappointment wasn’t something she enjoyed, so she didn’t expect this tree’s produce to compare to her childhood nostalgia.

In its small batch of earth, she placed the lamp beside it and chuckled. What will grow, she wondered. Gold? Jewels? She'd find out, and she'd pick the tree clean.

“I want a piece,” cried a voice to her left. “Please, may I have a slice,” they insisted on her right.

She brought the dirt together into a mound and smiled. “Alright,” she said, her ponytail swung over her shoulder, “you get one slice, but only when the tree is big and tall.” She spun to meet the speaker and met her reflection.

Dreams returned sluggishly. On its colorless end, the mirror cracked, and the dream dissipated. Green turned to light. Light was nothing though it was all at the same time. Her eyes cracked open and rolled around in its sockets trying to grasp their new surroundings. She didn’t recognize the wallpaper or windows or even the vanity dresser to the side. A photograph greeted her, and she focused on the woman’s pale blonde hair and distant, sleepy smile. Her eyes closed, and she exhaled.

A sound in the distance stirred her senses. Loud and quiet, angry and relieved. It was convoluted, multiple sounds at once, and she soon realized these sounds were voices. Their blurry textures cleared the longer she listened. Goldie licked the back of her teeth as memories found each other. Joints wheezed the moment she decided the time to move had come. Lessened pain made her head spin, and her empty stomach clenched. In a sitting position her reflection revealed the damage done. Her fingertips were a deep magenta, closer to red than pink, and veins that ought to have remained hidden underneath a healthy coat of feathers revealed a lighter, thinner magenta trail.

Her discolored veins were a sign she survived the onslaught. Mulberry Madness wasn’t an illness to take lightly. Seeing was alive and not suffering a painful demise, she knew Oswald made the right call. She frowned at her ruined blouse. From the odor vomit and sweat were well mixed. She punched the mattress. Going out in her condition wasn’t an option, but their voices were stronger. Chances of someone saying the wrong thing was frighteningly high, and she couldn’t afford them ruining her chance.

Grimacing at the dull pain in her feet, she went to the door. The empty room greeted her, and she closed it softly. She couldn’t go out like this. Vomit stained shirt. Sweaty pants. At least there wasn’t any blood. She’d thank them for that much. She searched the room and spotted a second door. She clutched the end of the bed and wobbled to the other side. Cleverness would save them, but most importantly, she needed to be precise and ahead of the competition.

“Alright baby,” she panted, scrutinizing the outfits inside. “Mama’s coming.”

* * *

“Apologies for our unannounced arrival, Mr. McDuck,” the woman smiled at her tea cup. “We prefer organized conduct, but our unique circumstances have pushed us in an unprecedented corner."

Gideon clipped tone didn’t argue. “I understand. We both do,” he glanced wearily at Scrooge. “But lets not bounce around the subject on pleasantries.”

The woman smirked. “To the point as ever,” the woman smirked and dropped three lumps of sugar into her cup. “That’s why you were good at you did Gideon. It’s why we wanted to keep you. However, we understand your passion lied in the written word.”

“Writing was what saved my life,” he said proudly. “I’d be dead without it.”

“Indeed, and so would many people had you not spoken against the injustices of the world,” her beady dark eyes twinkled sharply as they set on Scrooge. “An impressive feat it is, to change the world all with a single sentence. You can change the tide of a war or save an innocent, helpless village.”

Scrooge growled. Gideon’s stare darkened and narrowed tightly. “Yes, the things we do for the sake of justice or protection,” he replied, rubbing the rim of his cup. “What are the charges against Goldie O’Gilt?”

A man dressed in an emerald dress tilted his head. Its beak gleamed menacingly. “Do you want to start with the Demogorgona Uprising,” he sniffed audibly. “An atrocious act of bloodshed and horror she committed."

"She started it," Scrooge corrected. "She didn't commit any acts."

"Yes, yes," the emerald dressed man nodded. "War crimes aren't our area, sir, we're concerned over the uprising's two millennia headstart."

“It was going to happen with or without her,” Scrooge interjected. “The Demogorgana General already slaughtered the royal family, and the tribes were restless. There was no way they were going to agree on peace.”

“No,” the woman said, “they weren’t, but it wasn’t up to her to make that decision. The moment she stole The Eye of Demogorgona she trampled over written works. The Hellhound was meant to take the Eye, and he died alongside his master instead. That wasn't written.”

“Goldie’s interference decreased the death count, actually,” Gideon confessed. “It pushed for a revolutionary change in democracy and social care. That's written in the great book, and she didn’t break any rules by going to Demogorgona.”

“It was an unauthorized usage of a portal.”

“And what about me?”

Four pairs of stares whipped to him.

“You are a special case,” each syllable was calculated. The woman drawled her sentence as if speaking to an extremely slow witted child, “Your adventures occur due to outside forces for the most part, and your infractions are far less complicated than Ms. O’Gilt’s.”

Scrooge growled, understanding the focus of this conversation. "You're saying this is about paperwork," he snapped. it clicked in his brain like a light bulb, sending sparks of anger throughout him. His glower shimmered, “You shot Goldie. You tried to kill her to avoid doing paperwork.”

“Of course,” they said in unison. “Why not?”

“You callous cods!”

A cane slapped into his stomach. The pain surprised rather than injured, and he rolled to Gideon, still seated, stare icy.

“I understand your frustration, Scrooge,” sympathy coaxed formality, “but we are here to make a business deal, not start a war. The Board has arrived with an offering, and we should hear them out before making any rash decisions.”

The warning was laid bare. In front of the Board and Scrooge. Violence would not be tolerated in his home, and as they preferred not to see what it’d lead to, it was best to remain seated.

Scrooge swallowed his rage, returning to his seat slowly but not before pushing aside his brother’s cane.

“Fine.” He returned to The Board, “What’s your offer?”

“As you know, our driver failed to complete the mission,” she explicated. “We'll admit this is not uncommon among rookie drivers, but a veteran? The driver sent is our absolute best, and ever since her failure to comply, she has gone rogue.”

Scrooge and Gideon exchanged a stare.

“Rogue?”

“AWOL. Desertion. Missing. We haven't located her."

Gideon shifted in his chair, cracking his neck ever so softly. “So, this is the deal,” he drawled. “You want us to locate this driver and bring them to you -,”

“In exchange for Goldie’s life,” Scrooge finished.

“Yes,” they said.

“Is this a lie? Some trick?”

“Not at all,” they said. The woman set her cup on the table, “We will expunge Goldie’s records, and she will receive a pardon from our organization along with an Interdimensional Pass.”

“Interdimensional Pass?”

“Free to go wherever, whenever,” Gideon explained. “Originated in The Old World, said it was taken right out its heart.”

“Suppose it isn’t cheap.”

“Your riches can't compare," he smirked.

Scrooge didn't trust it. As cliche as it was, a trap was likely. This deal seemed too good to be true, and neither men were willing to step forward without some sort of certainty.

“In paper,” they said. “Have it written in a legally binding agreement, if any the terms are broken, we will send a reckoning upon you have never known. Fortuna Favet Fortibus.”

Their eyes rolled. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard such words,” they procured a pen and paper, “you may read through it at your leisure. Just know if you fail to acquire our driver, Goldie O’Gilt will be killed, along with you.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Gideon grumbled. “She’s your wife.”

“We aren’t married.”

“So you say,” he snatched the contract away. “This is what I get for employing her. Constantly costing me and causing trouble.” Black ink dried on dotted lines. He slid the contract back to them and watched as their claws coiled it back.

“Who’s the agent,” Scrooge asked. “We can’t start this manhunt if we don’t know who we’re looking for.”

Beaks that had no reason to smile the way they did curved like scythes. Gideon and Scrooge pinched their stares and readied their hearts despite their confusion.

"She approached us more than sixty years ago. We can say with absolutely certainty she's proven to be a shining example of Driver etiquette, a legend," they sighed dreamily. "We hate to lose her, but rules are rules." The one to the right slid a photo out of its breast pocket, “She is smart, tough, and sharp. She slips in and out of this world and the next. It’s the reason why her capture is so imperative.”  
  
“You think you can reason with her?”

They smiled, “Rehabilitate is more apt. Her former mentors are involved in the search. We think those who know her best will help her see reason.”

He glanced at the photograph on the table. Seeing his vision had betrayed him, he lifted it off the table and brought it to his face. His stomach sunk, and the wind was punched out of his lungs.

“Bless me bagpipes.”

* * *

“The Daughter of Fortune, or at her insistence, Opal."

As far as horrible realizations went, this wasn’t the worst. Tight shoulders defied an emotional sundry intent on destroying each other; they maimed the other's skin, throwing it to the flames. Its what Scrooge wanted to do to the photo, who he passed to Gideon.

"I see," he whistled. "That is quite a twist."

“An unfortunate twist, yes, but one we must work towards in rectifying,” they grinned. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes,” Scrooge said mutely. “I do. Leave.”

Gideon showed them to the door and watched them depart in their car. They shuttled in, each one in the front, and back out of the yard until there was nothing left. Scrooge slumped in the chair, staring blankly ahead.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” she opened the door, arms crossed. “How bad is the rage? Grotesque? Unimaginable?"

He didn’t look at her. “Did you know,” voice feeble, wounded. “Tell me did you know?”

“Scrooge -,”

“Goldie,” he raised his head, and she sighed, seeing wet stars in his eyes. “Did you know?”

“Yes, yes, I did.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She apologized,” Goldie defended weakly, knowing this didn't touch the bare minimum for him.

“And she still did it?”

“Yes.”

Anger unlike she’d ever seen brightened in the room. He straightened his coat as he stood. “It’s settled then. We’re going to find her. We’re going to give them to her.”

“They’re going to kill her, Scrooge.”

“Apparently, she’s killed others!”

“Not necessarily,” Gideon plopped in his chair. “Drivers are very...experienced, roundabout. A good driver doesn’t equate to a good killer, but being she’s your daughter, I’m sure she got a talent for destruction.”

They paid him no mind. “Whether she’s a thief or a murderer, she’s our daughter, and we’re going to help her,” she said quietly. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see her.”

“Good thing too!” He clenched his fist, “To think of what I would’ve done had I!”

Her sharp look might've made a weaker man cower, but this wasn't the argument she wanted to have. “Can’t say I agree with her alternative choice,” raising her bandaged fingers, “but I am alive. So, I’m going to make sure she’s alive whether you like it or not.”

He tensed. Sharp resolve was clear as day.Everything he planned to say hit a brick wall. “Fine,” he slagged. “We’ll find her.”

“And we aren’t going to turn her in.”

He tensed. “We won’t turn her in,” but as an aside the rest of the sentence dangled ominously between them. It wasn’t a threat, they knew. They were too old for threats they couldn’t keep. But a promise? Goldie looked to Gideon.

“Where do we start?”

His face conveyed leveled surprise. “Oh,” he gestured to his chest, “you’re talking to me? About me? I just thought you’d forgotten the person who saved your life and who you tried to steal from.”

The accusation didn’t wound her. She stayed near Scrooge, carrying a light glare with enough arrogance to ruffle their feathers.

“You’re a dealing man, more so than this tightwad over here,” she cocked a stare to Scrooge. “How about this?”

“You mean the priceless babble you wanted me to believe was the Corvus Padparadscha?”

Goldie smirked, “Can’t get one over you.”

Gideon growled. “Ack, we’ve already made a deal with the blasted fools,” he set his cane aside and took a seat, beak crossed in thought, “they mentioned her mentors, former supervisors? Maybe we can look into them.”

“And how do you suppose we do that,” Scrooge stepped forward. “We don’t have the faintest clue who or where they are!”

It was the perfect moment for her to slip into her breast pocket, and so she did with hard earned finesse. Goldie revealed a rectangular reflective glass. Its outer shape was outlined in hard black metal. Scrooge frowned, confused where Gideon gasped while his nostrils flared.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.”

Scrooge noted his half-brother’s aghast expression and her confident one. “I see,” he responded. “You stole the Interdimensional Pass didn’t you?”

“You didn't,” Gideon groaned.

“Yes, I did.”

“And I’ll take a gander and assume you’ve also stolen her entire file, haven’t you?”

“It’s very dense,” she showed a second rectangle that was more clear than reflective. “I can’t believe the 56th Dimension uses these things.”

In their horror, they were impressed. Unripe questions wanted voice, but they weren't ready for the answers. Seeing he had more to lose, with it being his house, Gideon mustered enough strength to ask, “How?”

“Your closet,” she shrugged. “I can’t believe you left that thing open. It took three tries in less than five seconds, but I got the hang of it.”

Uncontrolled anger struck his chest, and he stood, pointing his finger at her beak. “You don’t just go into a man’s closet,” he shouted. “That’s a private place!”

“As private as an unlocked door,” her eyebrow cocked suspiciously. “Don’t worry, there was nothing of value in there anyways, but I found the identities of the people dispatched to locate her. Believe it or not, one of them lives very close by in Warnerstock.”

“Warnerstock,” they repeated.

“Wanerstock,” she grinned. “And that’s where we’ll start.” She walked to the other end of the room and opened the door. To no one’s surprise, the a group of children fell forward. Blue, green, and purple were cushioned on top of yellow and red.

“Sorry!”

“We weren’t eavesdropping at all!”

“That’s not suspicious.”

Goldie sent a sideway glance to the brothers, choosing not to count the more than five heads on the floor. “You do know they’re not coming with us,” she said.

“You can tell them that,” Scrooge said, “but I don’t know how well it’s going to stick.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is revealed.


	7. Chapter 7

Goldie was not used to children, and children were not used to Goldie.

Their mutual discomfort benefited them, she liked to believe.

When the board members slithered out the house and into their car, the three watched, scowls aging their faces. The license plate winked at them.

What to do, where to go, these decisions were made in an instant. Goldie presumed they'd be on their way, but she'd forgotten the people waiting outside the door, starving for answers.

The door burst open, revealing a group of children. At the bottom of the pile was her own granddaughter, and her eyes widened in shock. She hadn’t lost her mind then. _To be fair,_ she mused quietly, _it was cut kinda close_. Dickie wiggled and groaned. She stood once the four children got off and ran to Scrooge, hounding him with questions.

Dickie ignored him. Or rather, she didn’t have anything to say to him at the moment. She ran to Goldie and embraced her.  _Kind of tight,_ she lamented. Goldie was shorter than her granddaughter (the difference became notable at thirteen), and she knew the roundness her cheek was squeezed into wasn't a pillow. Rather than push her away, scowling at the unwarranted touch, she stood still; her tremors could be contagious.

Goldie didn’t have to wait long. Donald and Oriane came in after them. Worry aged their faces, and they searched, half-expecting the room to be in an uproar. They were correct in a fashion; the room was in an uproar, but it had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

“Who were those guys,” the blue child asked. He was followed by a red capped one, “Why were they here? What happened?”

It was the green one, whose named escaped her, who picked up the photograph off the coffee table. He raised it to the light and studied it. He glanced back at them, picking apart physical similarities and differences. His brow furrowed neatly, and had Goldie not been consumed in a tearful embrace, she might’ve addressed the eerily similar skepticism.

She knew what the boy was going to say. Her gaze peeked above Dickie’s arm and saw the connections spark. His eyes drew wide. His beak pouted. He shook the photograph, an old polaroid from the nineties Goldie realized. The moment she anticipated for him to speak, releasing the name to cold air, the photograph was snatched out of his hand.

Donald scowled and paled in an instant. He tried to maneuver around his shock, wordless as it was. Louie noticed his uncle’s troubled expression, and the noticeable lump in his throat as he swallowed. Three other children swarmed around Scrooge, and he measured his uncle’s weary responses, dismissive and impatient. If this photo indicated what he thought it meant, then...his stomach was tangled in knots.

“Uncle Scrooge,” Donald set a hand on his arm, former than he preferred. “What did Dawn do?”

There it was. The avoided name; the name planted as a seedling, grown into a glorious tree, and withered into rotted blackwood. It’s fruit had been abundant and joyful for a time, far longer than either of them had ever expected, but now its juices were ash on their tongues, smoke polluting clean air.

Scrooge said nothing to Donald. Goldie didn’t think it was entirely intentional. He was at a loss of what to do, and this included speech. The children were a clever distraction. Their persistent questions were answered with careful pauses and absent minded scowls. Donald’s question, however, demanded truth, and no amount of blubbering or scowls or even an angry shout would appease him.

“Kids, we need to talk,” he said. His voice, so soft and gentle, was surprisingly firm. Four heads glanced at him, confused, but Donald’s positioned defied any potential argument.

“Right now -,”

“Ofelia,” he faced the door where the red headed girl stood awkwardly, sipping a cup of tea. “Take your siblings to the living room with Oswald. Make sure they stay there.”

She may have argued, but Goldie couldn’t see the child’s face. She heard her soft, “Yes, Uncle Donald,” and heard the sound of tiny feet leaving, closing the door behind them.

Oriane reviewed the photograph over Donald’s shoulder. The disappointment visible was thick enough to slice and serve on a saucer, fork included.

At last Dickie released her, or Goldie managed to wiggle free from her gold. She stepped forward and cast a questioning glare onto each of them.

“Is anyone going to explain?”

Gideon straightened his jacket. “I can do it if it’s,” he started kindly, but a sharp glare from Scrooge and Goldie forced his hands defensively. “Or not,” he sat.

This was something they needed to do together.

* * *

It was simple and complex. Oriane and Donald knew much already, and Donald had been present when it first happened.

Scrooge and Goldie kept the details succinct, no additional language was required. Dickie listened intently; aside from her brow rising and lowering at certain instances, the girl was silent. By time they finished, she had curled her fists on her knees and leaned into the chair, noticeably tense.

“What do you plan to do,” she asked meekly. “You’ve got the cards, don’t you?”

“And her files,” Donald added. “Are you sure you want to find her?”

Scrooge readied his response, but when the time came, he was unsure. Goldie stepped in the empty space he left behind and nodded, “Of course, she’s our daughter. I’m not going to leave her to the wolves.”

At that, Scrooge could’ve kept quiet. “She had no problem gifting you the same a few hours ago,” he retorted coldly. “We plan to find and offer her to the board to get your charges dropped. For now, they’re suspended.”

Only Dickie had the decency to wince, or it may have been her youth. She wasn’t used to Scrooge’s harsh honesty. Goldie glared at him, sharpened emerald aiming to strike his snow blue.

“She's our daughter,” she said tersely. Every fiber of her being stilled for the fight about to ensue. “Did you give up on Della?”

There wasn't time to react. Scrooge pulled back, as if punched, and darkened. "Don't you dare use her name in this," he said lowly. "She didn't rob me. She didn't -,"

"I know what they did," Goldie interjected. "And I don't care. I'm going to get her whether you want it or not."

His feathers reddened. "Yes," Scrooge teased between gritted teeth. “She’s our daughter, and we’re going to leave her to her fate. The one she made of herself.” His anger reached its reserves the longer he spoke, and a cutting edge graced his tone, “She needs to pay for the crime.”

An unsettling quiet stayed. Oriane and Donald maintained their silence, sharing uneasy stares that soon found their feet. Dickie didn’t gulp but wanted to say something, anything to remove that stricken mask on her Gigi’s face.

Gideon, however, was unfazed. “Which crime do you intend for her to pay for,” he asked, arms opened.

“For shooting Goldie,” he bit testily, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “For stealing from me and -,”

“They don’t care,” he interjected smoothly. Scrooge’s surprise mingled underneath his angered surface.

“You speak of crimes, but you don’t realize the crime they’re seeking justice for,” Gideon continued briskly. “She failed her mission.”

“She left her for dead.”

“Last I heard that’s kind of your thing.”

Scrooge blushed, “This is different, and you know it.”

Gideon brushes him off. “Experience has taught us left for dead doesn’t equate dead,” he emphasized, pointing to Goldie. “They know the difference. The crime she committed wasn’t shooting Goldie. It was that she didn’t kill her as instructed.”

His tight tone could have overwhelmed them in an instant; both sinister and kind, its patience was impressive. He waited for them to grasp the enormity of the situation He leaned back. His stare simmered in the light.

“You’re saying this is when we make a decision,” Dickie said.

Gideon’s eyes sparkled. “An act of outward defiance is unprecedented.” His whiskers twitched feverishly, “In all my studies, no one has ever defied a direct order, and I must confess my fascination.”

His intrigue annoyed them all, but his proposal had taken root. The decision was Goldie’s alone, though Scrooge was more than welcome to offer input. His perspective was loud and clear; his pursuit was solely for Goldie’s benefit. Her survival. His certitude sat between them like a chasm extending its tendrils to the poles.

Held breaths knotted in throats as they awaited Scrooge’s response.

* * *

Goldie slammed the door behind her. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Her teeth tore at inside cheek skin. Copper kissed her tongue, and she began to pace in the room.

He said what he meant and meant what he said. She didn’t expect anything less from him. Knowing this didn’t pacify her anger, and it didn’t calm her rage. He admitted obtaining Dawn was the right thing to do for them, but he wasn’t going to exceed expectations. He’d return her to her superiors, for better or worse.

Goldie didn’t remember much after that. She recalled bits and pieces doused in anger. She’d taken a chair and aimed it at his head. He dodged it swiftly, raising his hands as he explained. His explanations were useless. The meaning was thick; he intended to abandon her to her fate. Gideon was more than happy to imply death wasn’t the end all for defiant officers. Death was fortunate compared to what other punishments awaited.

She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, pressing the barrel of the gun to her stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

She recognized her dark, solemn stare, despite the veil she used to obscure her features. Teenage angst was a source of constant exasperation for them, but Goldie couldn’t have been happier in that moment. Even when she pulled the trigger and unimaginable pain disintegrated her senses, the urge to hold her was impossible to deny. She hadn’t denied that feeling as she fell and her mind was lost to oblivion; she wanted to cradle as she did when she was still enclosed in her egg.

Goldie huffed. No matter her anger, a part of her understood Scrooge’s refusal. His love blinded him; murdering the duty he had for their daughter. She pinched her eyelids and breathed. Getting emotional over this, be it sorrow or anger, wasn’t going to help her. She needed to think, and she needed to think fast.

He didn’t knock. The door opened with a wonder creek. The end of the beak appeared first; the rest came slowly, gently. He pressed the door without a sound and shuffled awkwardly on his feet. She was on the edge of the bed grimacing. She didn’t look at him.

“Goldie?”

She clasped her hands. Her wrist bones flexed and clicked.

“Goldie, please,” he slid next to her. The bed barely shifted. “You have to understand.”

Understand. He wanted _her_ to understand. She wanted to sock him in the jaw, but that wouldn’t solve anything. Swallowing her instinct, she gave him her undivided attention.

“I understand,” she answered. “I understand you don’t care about Dawn.”

Scrooge frizzled. “Don’t care,” he hissed. “You think I don’t care?” The accusation stung deeper than his heart. This wasn’t the time bleed it out. “Goldie, I love her. I gave her far more than my parents could afford to give me, and what did she do,” he crossed his arms.

“Put it to good use?”

“She squandered it, Goldie,” he exhaled. “She isn’t a baby anymore. An adult accepts the consequences of her actions. She doesn’t abscond to worlds unknown to avoid her parents’ wrath, and she certainly doesn’t keep what she’s stolen.”

Valid, sensible points. Any rational person would’ve accepted these terms. “I keep all of the things I’ve stolen, Scroogey,” she admitted. “What I haven’t spent is stored in an encrypted vault.”

His right eye ticked. He chewed his comment in half and blew out of his nose. “Goldie,” he clasped a hand into his, and together, they stared at the tainted veins, ruined into a pale, stunningly cut pink violet. Her fingertips festered an intense shade; its protuberance was a quarter thick. Gideon said it was a consequence of the chemicals leaving her system, but the scars were likely to remain.

“She did this to you,” a sob coiled around his tongue. “Our girl...did this...to you.”

The painful truth cracked and trembled. Love tempered his anger, but it didn't soothe the staggering hurt in his heart.

He loved them, loved them both with unimaginable fierceness. Lover and father. The last time such pain ravished him, it nearly destroyed him. Rather than dying, he dove into disgruntled solitude, and he had no intention of doing that again.

She’d stolen from him, this was true. Scrooge had never told her what it was that she’d taken, and there was no way for them to find out. She fled without a trace or note. Simply gone. When worry gave way to fear, it caved under fury’s night, and that was what lingered. But as Goldie held him in her arms, murmuring gentle reassurances, she realized the fear hadn’t truly vacated, just simply took a backseat for protection’s sake.

“I thought I lost you,” he sobbed. “You were small and weak, and Goldie,” he gasped, “You were dying, love.”

"Yeah, I was,” she rested his head on her shoulder. She caressed the back of his head as he pulled her closer to him. He smelled of gold coins and haggis. “My darling, I know, but you know we can’t give her up.”

“I know,” he confessed weakly. He sniffed and pulled as if to make eye contact, but he was too weak and tired. “I know, but I can’t lose you too, Goldie. I won’t.” Adamant on the last note, vehement truly.

Her heart didn’t sink. It was more of an impaling. A sword swooped in and did the deed, nailing it to the back of her chest cavity. Understanding what she didn’t want to understand made her sick. She held him close, kissing his brow and reminding him he’d done what he thought was right. Gods know she’d done worse; for that very reason, her decision was made.

* * *

He got up in the morning; he went to work at night. He returned to his home at 5:30, and he caught the same train every time. He sculpted his life around punctuality that never failed.

He was all so good and all so fine. Very healthy in body and mind. But for one odd reason, he was not a well respected man, and he was content with that.

He arrived at his home in rancid, rowdy on time as usual. He checked his smartphone, because no one owned watches aside for aesthetic purposes, and wiggled his key into the door. Upon entering, he tossed his grey fedora to his aged fedora and slipped off his suspenders.

He clicked and clacked to the refrigerator, searching its scanty insides for a beer. He grumbled, seeing he’d have to make a round to the corner store in a short time, but to his fortune, a cold Bullweiser was pushed to the lower corner. Grinning ear to ear, he snatched and popped the top.

He plopped on the sofa, kicking off his shoes and turning on the television. Cold air combated summer heat. He sighed and stretched, taking easy sips from the can. Only when was he comfortable did he address the woman sitting idly in the corner of his kitchen.

“You know that’s rude,” he drank. “Coming in uninvited. I could’ve gotten out my good China.”

She stalked him, arms crossed, and pale green eyes burning under dim light. Born of emerald, he might’ve said, but his beer had him occupied.

“You and I have unfinished business, Flusher Foxglove.”

“Baby,” he snickered, “you ain’t kidding.”

She raised an arm. He reached over his shoulder. A flock of ravens flew off the electric lines, frightened by a sharp sound that should have alerted the neighbors something was wrong, but to their relief, he was not a well respected man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted Scrooge to simply break. He loves his Goldie so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Goldie is in for a rough time, but so is everyone.
> 
> And yes, it's everyone's favorite lucky rabbit!
> 
> Rule of thumb: The rating will change when we hit that point, but it won't be for a while.


End file.
